


crime and punishment

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura comes back though, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Champion Shiro (Voltron), Established Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Geopolitics and Diplomacy, M/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: After the war, Shiro's life seems almost perfect. He's Earth's ambassador and a (finally) boyfriend of Keith Kogane. Although life involves the trials of tracking warlords, struggling with interplanetary diplomacy, and aiding Pidge's newest project, it looks like peace is finally on its way...Until Shiro's past as the Champion comes to light.
Relationships: Allura/Lance (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 112
Collections: Sheith Big Bang 2019





	1. Part One: Shiro

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to futuredescending for her tireless and thoughtful beta reading, as well as her encouragement, brainstorming, and working on her own fics all the while <3 This story is all the better with her input, and I once again thank her. 
> 
> Additional gratitude to my lovely artist, [@Kit_N_Kaboodle](https://twitter.com/Kit_N_Kadoodle), who illustrated a racy but sweet scene with absolutely lovely colors. [Check it out <3 They worked hard! ](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1CdfLUhDBYTrXpLBbYq4zajZFAQlluLQU/view?ts=5e1e19c9) And go follow them ;)

_Keith,_

_How many times will it take for me to redeem myself? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? More than the stars in this galaxy?_

_You knew, even before everything started, my weaknesses. Then, when I came back the first time, my sins. But I was somehow enough for you. The way I could never be, with my family, with the Garrison, with the world. It was just enough that I was there and alive. I’m not sure, still, how you time and time again defy the odds._

_My luck has run out, it seems. I survived when I shouldn’t have, from the moment I walked out of that hospital with a stuffed animal and a diagnosis. Perhaps it means something, the universe trying again and again to kill me. Maybe I’ve used up all my chances._

_You asked me to not do this to you, not again. But I cannot undo what I’ve done to you, to the innocents, to reach out to you, to touch you with blood-stained hands. I know you forgive me, like you always do. As many times as it takes. But the universe isn’t so forgiving._

_I’m sorry. But thank you for everything._

_Always,_

_Shiro_

He puts down the pen. Folds the letter into thirds. Scribbles Keith’s name on the outside. And waits.

**CHAPTER ONE**

Allura’s statue is taller than New Altea’s castle. Already, juniberries and candles and handwritten notes are piled at her feet, with an occasional personal token—a simple gold ring, a child’s toy, a jeweled earring, a scrap of cloth. The hair flows to her waist and is fastened back with her crown, the jewel Shiro now carries in his arm, with her eyes staring straight ahead—towards where Oriande was, Coran said. A faint smile plays on her lips, but overall, she looks solemn, timeless, god-like.

She would have hated it.

“Shiro.”

He turns. Keith’s walking up the grassy hill, in his Blade robes and hair pulled back. He’d made a short speech, as the leader of Voltron, about sacrifice and courage and hope. _There is goodness in your hearts and in your actions,_ he had said, and Shiro had froze, remembering Allura’s last words. _May we usher in a new era of peace. For Princess Allura. For Altea._

Keith now moves to stand at his side, hands clasped behind his back as he tilts his head to peer up at the statue. He doesn’t say something stupid, like, _The war’s over_. They both know, keenly, that it won’t be—for a very long time.

“They’re meeting inside,” Keith says instead. “Lance and Coran, they’re talking about this being a yearly festival. In honor of Allura.”

Shiro doesn’t say anything. No one should forget Allura, and regardless of what she said, the universe needs to know her sacrifice. _The universe is at peace because of you,_ he’d thought the whole way back to Earth. _But you don’t get to see it._

“Do you think there’s another reality out there?” Shiro finally asks. “One where Allura didn’t have to die to make it better. Perhaps peace can’t be achieved without sacrifice. But why her? Wasn’t there another way?” He laughs, harshly. “Listen to me; I sound exactly like Slav.”

“I think there are,” Keith says. He’s still staring upwards. “There have to be. But now…they’re waiting for us.”

Normally, Shiro would obediently turn back to his duties and responsibilities, but he can’t make himself move. 

Coran had been the one to carry on, bravely moving each event forward. A part of Shiro wanted to be that teenager again, content to lay burdens on an adult’s shoulders, but he’d stood by his side throughout everything, hands clasped together to keep them from trembling through the Altean prayer, the only line he recognized was something he’d heard her say countless times after a battle: _May the lights of the ancients guide her home._

“Give me ten minutes,” Shiro says, “please.”

Keith’s head dips into a nod. He looks as if he might touch Shiro’s shoulder, but instead, turns away and walks back down the hill.

Shiro stays behind. He’s sure that much more than ten minutes goes by, as the sky turns deep purple, then dark, as the stars begin to blink on.

* * *

The weeks after the funeral pass in a blur of celebrations and funerals and speeches. The Paladins—and Shiro—all have to go on this circuit tour of victory. All of them had imagined statues, parades, going back to families, but not without a cost. Not without someone missing.

Guilt eats him up every time he looks at Coran stoically leading them like children through each planet. He calls them heroes and defenders of the universe in every speech, and Shiro remembers Coran, fierce and heartbroken, turning on him after the first of many battles against the Empire: _No, Shiro lost Allura!_

He wishes there was anger. Beatings. Flagellations. But Coran never gives him—or anyone—that. _She saved the world,_ he only says, and stands back for them to receive their cheers.

No one wants them. Pidge cries, head muffled in Matt’s or Sam’s chests. Hunk throws himself into talking with locals or ducking into kitchens. And Lance—Lance slips away within the first hour, a shadow of his former self, sometimes with Keith or Coran or alone.

Keith and Lance have become friends, Shiro realizes. How long? He casts his mind backwards, but it’s full of generalizations and blurs and battles. Only a year ago, he would have been overjoyed: the rivalry ended at last, Voltron stronger together.

But now, he only feels frustration, a pang in his chest that feels like loss the more he tries and tries. It’s not like when the druids erased that one year, of hollow blanks and gaps that he’d recognized should be filled. It’s not like when the clone reboot overwhelmed every corner of his mind, dumping over him like a rush of cold water. It’s not even like when he’s able to recollect fragments of old memories—the smell of his grandfather’s cigarettes, his mom’s long and heavy sigh, the elation when he’d opened the acceptance letter to the Garrison, the feel of the controls in his palms during his first sim, the dull ache in his muscles.

Shiro remembers the events, of course. But there’s no feeling behind them, as if he had been a bystander, watching his life happen to someone else. And they’ve all blended together, like a slideshow, like the time Adam’s parents showed him the over two-hundred pictures of their vacation to the Caribbean, swiping through the albums with brief explanations and apologetic, hurried smiles.

It’s like he’s jumped forward in time—and he’s missed the whole thing.

* * *

And just like that, everyone is seemingly tired of grief. The world moves on.

There are promotions, parties, more celebrations. Keith refuses a position at the Garrison and goes with the Blades. Pidge gets a building named after her—“the Katherine Holt Observatory”—and a sponsorship with _Killbot Phantasm_ , along with opportunities to rebuild the Garrison’s tech and transportation units. Hunk gets offers from Veprit Sal’s to Coran to help rebuild Altea, but decides to stay with his family for a bit and show Shay around Earth. Lance leaves with Coran, Romelle, and the other Alteans to rebuild their planet and spread Allura’s message of peace.

And Shiro—

Shiro waits. He’ll slow down this time, he promises himself. He’ll make Allura’s sacrifice worth it.

* * *

In peacetime, it feels like waking up.

He’s twenty-six years old, but feels like his actual age of six, as he and Matt used to joke about during their Garrison days. He notices things with tiny, startling bolts of realization—Pidge’s change of glasses; the golden stripes on his uniform; Matt’s new haircut; the Unilus running the open air market of Plaht City; Iverson’s brief groan when he gets up from his seat; the faint humming of his right arm; the shy, periodic glances of one of his bridge crew members.

Shiro does his best to navigate this new world. He explores Atlas, with her gleaming walls and endless hallways and shivery presence in the back of his mind. He hops from planet to planet, following the paladins, from diplomatic mission to diplomatic mission. He speaks up during meetings he’s required to attend, has another promotion, then another.

_We should form trade alliances with other planets and combine our strengths. We have the Earth-Altean technology for defense, we have carbon-based plants some want for a change, we have beautiful places to explore. We are a member of the Galactic Coalition, and we should provide aid to those who need it; that’s what we were founded on._

_We will abide by the paladin code: no one gets left behind._

* * *

Even several years later, the transitional period from war to peace is not done. No one knows whether to lay down their weapons completely or keep them tight to their chests, and hotbeds of conflict and rebellion pop up on a daily basis.

But in between, there’s rebuilding. 

It definitely feels like that: lining up brick by brick, scrambling to seal the cracks, and watching them tumble down. There’s no big final battle, no quest to undertake, no mission to complete. Instead, peace is wading, tiptoeing, shaking hands, and looking over shoulders, with rules to follow, customs to insult, food to pick at, quorums and paperwork and meetings. 

He envies Keith, being able to be in control of his own team and jump from planet to planet to put out fires, instead of staying in one place to call in for meetings, where hardly anything gets done. Shiro feels like that man forced to push a rock up a hill for eternity while he’s mostly sitting in the same chair and repeating the same words for hours. 

_You’re doing something,_ he always has to remind himself.

**CHAPTER TWO**

“The endgame is reuniting families,” Pidge says. She’s taller now, though not by much, and stands assuredly at the head of the table with her datapad balanced in her right hand. Her hair’s slightly longer, parted to the left, glasses perched on her nose. 

They seem innocuous, playful, even, with their blue tint and wide, plastic-like frames, but Pidge told Shiro they were prototypes, designed to alert her to new information, and scan details about others with facial recognition against the Coalition database. _They’re still in beta testing_ , she reassured him, and he’d gone away with the sense that he _should_ report them as his duty as a senior officer and Earth representative, but never got around to it. 

He’s not sure how the Coalition will take it, even if every new piece of technology that springs from the Holt labs is treated like an act from above. Long ago here, though, he remembers there were revolts about privacy concerns and virtual policing and safety technology that ended in eventual shrugs. 

“Color-coded, because we’re not animals,” she’s saying, and Shiro turns his attention to the screen behind her. “But the concept is simple and a classic use of tidy data. Each missing person is given an ID number, along with as many details from their appearance to which planet they’d be on. When their ID is run through the database, they can establish contact and go from there.” 

“Your ambition is far-reaching,” Ryner says, voice still steady and calm as the day they first met, and Pidge beams. “This is a massive undertaking.” 

“But worth it,” Pidge fiercely replies. “I spent every free minute I had trying to find my brother and dad, even before Voltron. If it could give people the same peace I had, knowing that their families are out there…” 

There’s silence around the table. Even now, there are so many memorials from the Galra occupation, overdue ones from the war where no one could stop to take a breath to mourn, mass ones for entire cities and planets, with flowers, speeches, coffins being lowered into the ground, and other strangely, breathtakingly beautiful traditions—ashes scattered across the stars, bodies released into volcanoes or oceans, even remains scattered in the form of fireworks that could be seen from planets away. 

And that’s not counting those lost in the shuffle of colonization, of desertion, of everyday tragedies. What Pidge is trying to do...it’s something Shiro wishes he’s thought of himself.

There are more questions, of practicality and expense and time, but the idea is taken up with enthusiasm. 

After all, everyone wants to find someone. There’s no one in the universe who hasn’t lost a loved one.

* * *

They’re soon flooded with requests, pleas from across the galaxy. Pidge and Matt try their best to sort through the data that they have, pooled records from official government databases to volunteered information; everything’s thrown in with the hopes that any detail, no matter how tiny, could lead to answers. 

“But some might be in hiding, under new names or on hideaway planets like Romelle had been,” Pidge says desperately during a check-in meeting. “Or disappeared, without any records. The factors we’re not counting...if only we had more information to go on.” 

Someone speaks up: “This would go better if the Galra would volunteer theirs.” 

Shiro’s learning to recognize the signs: _The Galra_ or _The Empire_ instead of Daibazaal, a slight shift away from Krolia or Kolivan, a few muttered words in alien tongue. Diplomats are seemingly civil, but everything is under a thin veneer of politeness, and even then…

“Daibazaal is still in chaos,” Krolia says on screen. She’s wearing her Senior Blade robes, and there’s a new scar on her cheek, a shallow slash that nearly meets the bridge of her nose. “After the fall of Zarkon, then Lotor, the Empire was scattered. Warlords and anarchy: much information was sadly lost.” 

“Or buried,” Shiro hears. 

Krolia is perfectly calm. “The Empire was...organized. But you are right; some may have tried to obscure any damning information, especially after Honerva’s defeat. We’ve turned over what we have acquired to the Coalition.” 

“Which is not a lot. Barely useful—” 

“That’s enough,” Shiro says firmly. He looks the mutterers fully in the eye. “I ask you all to remember our alliance. The Blade of Marmora have been valuable friends to us from the beginning, and our very own leader of Voltron, the Black Paladin, has Galra parentage.” 

Luckily, no one seems to protest further, though sour looks are thrown his way. Krolia gives him a side raised eyebrow, which he’s come to know is a sign of approval. 

Shiro resists the urge to rub his forehead. “Motion to adjourn this meeting?” 

“I second,” Ryner says, and one by one, screens flicker off. 

Except for Krolia’s. “Thank you,” she says. 

“I’m only doing the right thing,” Shiro replies, folding his hands. 

“ _Only_ ,” Pidge scoffs. 

“I apologize,” Shiro interrupts, shooting her an unamused look. “Tensions are...high, with this anticipated launch. Understandably. But as I said, we all should remember that the Blades also gave their lives in the war, just like them.” 

Krolia smiles, yet there seems to be something not quite insincere but doubtful in it. “Thank you, Shiro. But matters are unsettled, lately, with the reappearance and re-establishment of Daibazaal. There’s...uneasiness. The Blades suggest a leader, to calm fears.” 

“A leader,” Shiro echoes. 

“Someone who’s Galra, but free of the bloodshed of Zarkon’s and Lotor’s reigns,” Krolia says. “Someone who’s well-respected across the galaxy, someone who both the Galra and the rest of the universe can trust to not retread old paths, someone who can cross borders.”

Pidge’s eyes light up. “Keith.” 

Shiro tries not to react, though he’s sure Krolia can read every emotion on his face. 

“Yes,” Krolia says, “but Keith...objects. And Kolivan and I cannot make him see sense.” 

Shiro knows what she’s getting at: “You want me to talk to him.” 

* * *

The thing is, they had talked about it, during the first Allura Day. After dinner, everyone quietly excused themselves: Pidge getting a call from Matt about a robot project they were working on, Hunk turning to Coran and asking about various ingredients, and Lance slinking off with a sad smile. He spoke to Keith briefly, before leaving, and Shiro watched as Keith placed an encouraging hand on Lance’s shoulder before moving on to go back to his ship.

“This is a hard day for Lance,” Shiro said.

“He likes being able to honor her,” Keith said, falling in step with him, “but he’d rather have her alive to do that.” He gestured to the nearby statue. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, having to wake up to this…reminder. Every day. For him and Coran.”

“I can’t, either.” Shiro looked up at it, too. He hadn’t thought about it like that—instead of a gaping hole, a neon sign, and right outside the castle. 

“And he gives tours to the kids that come here, to visitors and…” Keith sighed. “I wouldn’t be able to do that. But he does.” He laughed, briefly, clearly trying to move the subject forward. “Lance had to answer a question from someone today, about being able to see the good in everyone—even Zarkon. Said he handled it okay, but…”

Shiro winced. “Yeah. That’s…hard.” An understatement. Zarkon and the Galra are not the same; of course he knew that. But he couldn’t help but feel resentment, bitterness that he knew Allura didn’t want anyone to feel, but if it weren’t for him, weren’t for Honerva, Allura would still be...

“It’s like that, trying to get people to move forward,” Keith’s saying. “I had a speech on Daibazaal, and…I’m proud of my mom, of the Blades, but trying to create this new era of peace while balancing acknowledging what happened before…” He shook his head. “I have no idea what's going to happen. They seem to want peace, but it won’t be easy.”

“At least they want peace,” Shiro said, choosing to focus on the positive. 

“For now,” Keith warned, a tone Shiro wasn’t used to. Keith had always been pessimistic or thoughtful, often times both, but this seemed foreboding, something that reminded Shiro that he spent most of the year eating Hunk’s feasts amid civilized meetings while Keith had been out in space with the Blades full-time. “The warrior culture’s so ingrained into everything. Victory or death, Kral Zera, expansion, even before Voltron. The Galra Empire has always operated under some form of a monarchy—dictatorship, later. They’re used to some sort of direct leadership. And the Blades say if that doesn’t happen…”

Shiro knew the rest: “Direct leadership? They’re thinking of you, aren’t they?”

Keith flushed. “I know Kolivan wants me to. But I don’t believe an absolute leader is the right way,” Keith said stubbornly. “I might have the Empire’s best interests at heart, but what if I didn’t? Zarkon believed what he was doing was right.”

“What if there’s elections?” Shiro asked out of curiosity. “Your name is put forward. What do you do?”

“Refuse it,” Keith said immediately.

“Emperor Keith,” Shiro said, just to try it, and it brought to mind Keith in a flowing purple cloak and armor, standing in what he remembered of Lotor’s headquarters, shadow-filled and metal walls and rows of bots standing at attention. He felt a pang of something he couldn’t name, like seeing a date on a calendar with a row of red X’s leading up to it. 

Keith nudged him, hard. “Stop. That’s—I’m not even full-Galra; I know nothing about the Empire or much of the history or culture or anything—”

“That’s not your fault. But you’re the Black Paladin, the leader of Voltron. From the beginning, you saw the damage done by the Empire, but also the strengths and resistances and the people—Acxa, your mother, the Blades, and Lotor, even. You can bridge both worlds, Earth and Galra, and so much more. You’re steadfast, you’re devoted, you’ve saved the universe multiple times, and if that’s not good enough for anyone—” 

And he stopped, not just because he was overcome at that moment about what Keith meant to the universe, meant to _him_ , but because Keith’s lips were suddenly on his.

Shiro closed his eyes, and it was like a remembered dance, them being pulled to each other as easily as gravity. Automatically, he settled one hand on Keith's lower back, Keith holding onto his left shoulder. It was surprisingly chaste, but full of longing that he’d bottled up—both of them, he realized—all this time.

How long had they felt like this? Had they known? Of course they did, but neither of them dared, not even once. Now that there was peace, did they know what to do, once they got what they wanted? 

And just before Shiro was about to pull away, they both heard familiar roars in the back of their heads, and hand in hand, began running towards where the lions were.

* * *

Keith looks weary when he appears on the comm, but his eyes light up at the sight of Shiro. He’s been growing out his hair and experimenting with it. Some days, it’s pulled back into a ponytail or knotted into a messy bun. Today, it’s a braid thrown loosely around his shoulders that reminds Shiro of Kolivan. 

But it’s not Keith’s appearance that really catches his attention. Instead, it’s the surroundings: vaguely familiar, all bright, glass-like walls and a window showing green meadows and purple-and-pink flowers, the looming stone statue. 

“You’re on Altea?” Shiro asks, surprised, forgetting to even say a proper hello. 

Keith takes it in stride. “Occasionally.”

“What are you doing there?”

Keith’s then silent, and Shiro worries that he offended him. Keith might not have direct ties to Altea, but Allura had been his friend as much as anyone’s.

“Visiting Lance,” Keith finally says. He twists the end of his braid around his fingers. 

That’s all he’s getting out of him, Shiro senses. “Tell him hi for me,” he says instead. “And your mom says hi, too, by the way.” 

“And she wanted you to talk to me.” 

Shiro nods ruefully. “And she wanted me to talk to you.” 

“I keep saying no. Even threw in a few governing system ideas of my own, like a council instead of a monarchy or a dictatorship,” Keith says, but he didn’t sound too confident. “In addition to having a representative—or representatives—of the Empire to the Galactic Coalition, there can be a ruler here, with checks. I don’t think it went over well. I mean, _we_ don’t even do it anymore.” 

Shiro has to smile; they’ve debated this multiple times, all the way back when Keith was in cadet orange, sometimes idly between simulation practices, or hotly with Matt during two a.m. cramming sessions. Some things don’t change. “Daibazaal with federalism, that’s an idea. President Keith Kogane.” 

“Absolutely not,” Keith scoffs. “Anyway, you had that meeting. Catch me up?” 

Still smiling, Shiro does, carefully omitting some of the comments the representatives made about Daibazaal, but Keith seems to know about these things, either because Shiro’s terrible at lying or Krolia briefs him beforehand. 

“It’s like that out here, too,” Keith mutters. “Only the Galra don’t like it if you’re not _pure_ Galra. Axca’s the only one able to just, I don’t know, take it and move along; I have to hold back Zethrid and Ezor...to keep them from punching those guys myself.” 

“I won’t blame you,” Shiro says honestly. “But uh…” 

“No punching. Sort of not conducive to the whole diplomatic process. Man, I miss the old days. Get in, get out, save the day. If we were lucky.” 

“Well, now, we can’t tear the entire system down all at once,” Shiro says, though the war had been exactly that. “Change isn’t always a snap of the fingers.” He sighs, deciding to move along to the rest of the meeting details, not sure how much time Keith has before he has to dash off. 

Keith nods along, finally placing a hand on his chin and suggesting, “My mom told me to mention that the Blades have an extensive database. Mostly blueprints and war plans and different...dissenters still out there, but maybe something in there would be helpful.” 

“That would be great,” Shiro says enthusiastically. “This is so important, and it would mean a lot to Pidge, personally.”

“Happy to help, and I’d love to see her; it’s been a while.” Keith then ducks his head. “And you. It’s...sorry. Reorganizing some of the former colonies and hunting runaway warlords kind of eats your schedule.” 

“Don’t apologize for having a more exciting life than me. It’s mostly…meetings, lately. I could use another Atlas mission. Not that I want any trouble happening in the galaxy—” 

Keith laughs, waving his hand. “I get it. Maybe I can find something. But aren’t _you_ busy yourself, Mr. Representative of Earth slash Atlas commander?” 

“I have time,” Shiro says, then laughs, touches the tips of his fingers to the screen, right on Keith’s face. “And isn’t _that_ a weird thing to say.” 

“All the time in the world,” Keith replies, doing the same.

* * *

“What seems to be the problem?”

Matt looks up from his screen, sighs. “It’s just...people are missing. A lot. More than we thought.” 

“People want answers,” Pidge says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. On her own screen, dozens and dozens of files are crowded together, and Pidge is swiping through the air, forehead creasing more and more. “Understandably.” 

Matt looks at Pidge, then Shiro. “We think…” 

“No,” Pidge says. 

“It’s a possibility. We’ve always thought…” 

“How can we tell them?” 

Matt hesitates. “Maybe…” 

“If you tell me to take a break, I’m going to rip apart that robot girlfriend you’re building with my bare hands. And destroy all the coffee makers in the Garrison.” 

Shiro wants to break in, but senses this is between Matt and Pidge, something that’s likely been going on since they launched the project. There had been successes, yes, but very few and far in between; there were counts and tallies in the media, endless speculations and comments and pleas, a steady stream of messages, so much that they had to get a separate datapad so their regular ones wouldn’t stall. 

Matt sighs, tone serious. “Katie. Finding each other again was a miracle, and I want that for everyone as much as you do. But what if...you never found me or Dad, or found the worst? Realistically. What would you have done?” 

“What would I have done?” Pidge seethes, turning on Matt, and her eyes are glistening behind her glasses. She furiously takes them off, swipes a sleeve across her face. “I…I would want answers. No matter what. No matter what I had to hear. I would want _something._ ” 

“Some people can’t handle that.” 

“Open transparency, Matt!” 

“All right,” Shiro says gently, holding up a hand. “Answers won’t come overnight. You both are working so hard.” 

“Yeah,” Pidge says, not looking at him or her brother, “but I feel like I’m letting everyone down. That I promised them, and I can’t…” 

Matt looks stricken. “Katie. This isn’t on you.” 

“I promised, though! I _promised_!” 

“It’s not your fault, Pidge,” Shiro says. He knows this feeling, this utter helplessness. “Matt’s right. You found a problem, and you’re trying to fix it, but you didn’t cause it. People know there’s going to be...unwelcome news, but they also know you guys are doing the best you can with what you have. Keith’s sent you the data, right?” 

“It’s still processing,” Pidge admits. 

“So you’ll have more to work with.” Shiro takes a seat next to her, and together, he and Matt squeeze her hands. “We know it.” 

**CHAPTER THREE**

_PRISONER ID: 117-9875_

_SPECIES: Unknown_

_NOTES: Captured by Commander Sendak during scouting for the Blue Lion, near System X-9-Y. Attempted to escape multiple times, yet tenacious, stubborn, and adaptable. Cool head, could be useful, if properly trained._

_DESIGNATION: Arena._

* * *

“Hey, Keith. Another meeting. Here’s another contender for Daibazaal: Bogh, still at Omega Shield. I’ll stuff the ballot box.”

* * *

_FOOTAGE: OBTAINED FROM ZARKON’S ARENA_

_PHOEB 4, VARGA 5, 2313_

_Spotlights, too bright. Pillars standing tall, anchoring the ceiling shaking with the thuds from below, or the cheers. Shadows in the seats, but grainy, ever so grainy, with faces, features familiar to some, fangs and fur and markings and cloth and armor, identifiable enough. Hopefully._

_A feral growl. A cry. A blow._

_Blood soaking into the sand below, absorbed like a sponge._

_More cheers, and this time, thunderous applause_. 

* * *

“Process still going slowly. Same back on Earth. Iverson’s thinking about getting a dog, but keeps talking about your wolf. Any chance of space puppies?”

* * *

**_REPORT_ **

_MEDIC ULAZ: Prisoner 117-9875’s arm seems to be working well. The appendage is taken for further examination. Pain tolerance has increased, but a muzzle had to be issued halfway through the procedure and cut deeply into Prisoner 117-9875’s face. May require further examination but appears to be superficial._

_Arm meanwhile has proven to be a valuable asset in arena. Emperor is pleased with progress. Prisoner 117-9875’s bodily weakness remains, but druids communicated that it was of little consequence._

_Prisoner 117-9875 is allowed to have privileges: dull shaving blade, cleansing, food of higher quality. Will be able to have more if he uses the arm._

* * *

“Keith, haven’t heard from you in a while; hope everything’s going okay. Pidge and Matt are still working on that data you sent us. They have a whole team now, did you hear? Hunk’s asking me to show up at Reiphod for another diplomatic summit; he’s also testing out some new recipes he got from Shay. If you’re in the area, we can see each other. If Hunk gets to bring Shay...”

* * *

_FOOTAGE: OBTAINED FROM ZARKON’S ARENA_

_Out of focus, but still clear: moving seamlessly, hand crackling alive with purple sparks, advancing on someone else crawling towards the end of the arena. Begging. Hands lifted up, palms empty._

_A pause. A flash._

_A body falling._

* * *

“Keith, I’m really worried. Just message me.”

* * *

_STATUS: DECEASED._

_CAUSE OF DEATH: ARENA._

_ADDITIONAL NOTES: CHAMPION KILL #274._

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_**PIDGE:** Shiro, don’t look at the news. DON’T. Message me ASAP. _

_**BREAKING NEWS** : SHOCKING FOOTAGE OF ATLAS GENERAL SHIROGANE. GRAPHIC: VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED. _

_**PIDGE** : Not sure how this happened, I’m sorry, looking into it immediately! _

_**EMAIL ALERT** : Subject: PRESS REQUEST: Dear Mr. Shirogane... _

_**PIDGE** : Seriously, dude, don’t look at the news. Or social. _

_**IVERSON** : Shirogane. Please report to headquarters immediately. _

* * *

“Your trip to Reiphod is cancelled.” 

It’s a small assembly, considering. Iverson. Sam Holt. A few of the brass he hasn’t officially met yet. A cluster of security guards. The Garrison’s press official. 

“I don’t understand,” Shiro says slowly. “Is there a conflict I’m not aware of?” 

“Representative Shirogane,” says one of the strangers, “Some...disturbing items have come to our attention, and it may be best to cancel your appearance with Garrett and his team.” 

“We’re not blaming you,” adds another. “We just want to get your side of the story, as quickly as possible. Nothing leaves this room without preparation.” 

“I was warned not to look at the news,” Shiro says, a pit sinking in his stomach. He still hasn’t heard back from Keith; all the messages were from his friends, or alerts from news sites. “What’s going on, exactly?” 

No one seems to want to say anything. One of the guards shifts. The press official has a hand clutched around her small datapad. The door, Shiro notes, is closed. He wonders if it’s locked behind him. 

This is too much like when Admiral Sanda came to visit him a long time ago. But it was only her and Sam. The presence of all these people unnerve him; what’s wrong? 

Iverson looks to Sam, who has his datapad ready. 

With a few taps, he hands it over to Shiro, who, within five seconds, almost drops it on the floor. 

_The body falls to the ground, and with that, he’s their Champion._

“It’s not doctored,” Shiro manages to admit. He’s sitting down now, hands gripping his knees and taking shallow breaths, with Sam’s hand on his shoulder. 

Someone sighs. One of the brass, he thinks. 

“All right,” Iverson says, too calmly. “Tell us what this is.” 

_I was their executioner. Their champion. Theirs._

Shiro clears his throat. Looks at the press official, fingers poised above her keyboard, speaker on his datapad facing forward. At Sam, a ghost of an encouraging smile. At the officials surrounding him, tensed, eyes flickering to his Altean arm, to Sam’s datapad, paused at a certain moment of the footage. 

“It started on Kerberos…”

* * *

His throat feels dry, and his datapad’s been silently buzzing against his hip the whole time. He wonders if one of them is from Keith. How many are out there? He hasn’t eaten at all today, but something has a gnawing hold on his stomach, his chest, his hands. They’re stiff from not moving, and his legs are falling asleep, pins and needles prickling painfully down to his toes. _Champion. Champion._

And the silence from everyone: shocked, afraid, disgusted? Either way, it’s worse than what anyone could say. 

“What’s going to happen?” Shiro finally asks. 

“Temporary lockdown,” one of the officers says. “No one getting in or out, or talking to the press. Another statement will be put out, and when things calm down, a press conference. No responding to media requests or any members of the public; we’ll handle those.” 

“Right. Okay.” 

“Your friends are correct: don’t look at the news. No watching, no reading, no clicking.”

Shiro nods dumbly. 

“This is a sticky situation,” another adds. “You’re one of our top brass, Shirogane, and at such a young age, too. Your reputation as both a Galaxy Garrison officer and as Earth’s representative…” 

“His reputation is stellar,” Sam cuts in. 

“Which is why it needs to remain that way. I trust all of you remember our decision about the late Admiral Sanda.” 

Shiro does. The memorial. The plaque. A martyr of the war. It would be too chaotic, they said, and too damaging to internal and intergalactic affairs if it came out that one of their own had betrayed Earth to the Galra. Trust in the Garrison would be lost, their position in the Coalition shaky, not to mention in the foundations of American government—anarchy, in the worst possible scenario, just when they were beginning to recover. The revelation would do more harm than good. 

It made sense at the time, of course, which is why he agreed to it. He wonders if the Garrison held a meeting like that one, without him, discussing whether to cut and run. They did after Kerberos—and to his shame, Shiro’s relieved this isn’t going to be a repeat. 

_You’re valuable this time,_ Shiro thinks. 

In response, Sam grits his teeth. “These two are not the same.” 

“Exactly,” the official says bluntly. “It’s almost worse.”

* * *

_“Source of the leak is unknown, but includes clips and reports obtained from the then-Emperor Zarkon’s gladiatorial pits a few years ago, set shortly after the infamous Kerberos Mission. An expert panel is joining us today…”_

_“THE SHIROGANE LEAK: HERE’S WHAT TO KNOW”_

_“The Galaxy Garrison has released a brief statement that they are verifying the content of the leaked footage and reports on Representative Shirogane, and to direct questions to their public information officer. Shirogane has not responded or released a statement…”_

_“...is now trending on multiple social media sites, including the graphic footage. Accounts are being asked to adhere to the sites’ guidelines of conduct…”_

_“BREAKING: FOOTAGE OF SHIROGANE IN GALRA ARENA, NEGOTIATIONS ON HOLD”_

_“For those of you joining today, we’re discussing the recent leak of Earth Representative Takashi Shirogane, current general of IGF-Atlas and former Paladin of Voltron. Reports say…”_

_“Caller on the line, from Quadrant…”_

_“5 THINGS ABOUT THE SHIROGANE LEAK. 1. SHIROGANE WAS A FORMER PRISONER OF THE THEN-GALRA EMPIRE, CONTROLLED BY EMPEROR ZARKON, NOW DECEASED...”_

_“Has to be faked, can’t imagine…”_

* * *

Before their reconciliation, before the lions disappeared, before the Coalition started sending requests for intergalactic representatives, Shiro had been promoted to general in a stuffy room with a gray beret that tilted over his eyebrows, and sweaty handshakes and salutes. 

There were photos of him and the newly-promoted lined up in a row, either unsmiling or lips stretched into something approximate, then a portrait of him in front of the Garrison’s flag, staring straight into the camera, eerily reminding him of the headshot taken before Kerberos. And of course, the grand exit procession, air pumped with another round of the anthem and rhythmic marching and salutes. 

At the after-party, Shiro took the opportunity to slip away, tired of the champagne, the solicitous congratulations, the calculating looks of the other higher-ups, proposals that needed to be read immediately, the agenda everyone promised to send him. He’s the youngest general in history, he knew, and he anticipated the nights of going over notes, writing out what he must say, sitting up and looking as if he knew what he was doing.

He felt numb to it all. Someone normal would savor the moment of triumph and recognition, and a sensible one would panic, a little, at the outpouring of sudden responsibility. (Shiro, even years later, doesn’t remember what happened or what was discussed—just him being passed like a parcel to an intended destination, stamping him at each checkpoint without a blink.) 

Shiro had slipped to the memorial wall, looking up into Adam’s frozen face and row of stars, when a voice said, “Congratulations, General.” 

“Keith,” he said, savoring the missed, familiar syllable. “You could have been up there, you know.” 

Keith raised his eyebrows. His hair was longer, Shiro remembered, though not enough to do anything with except tie a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, for which Lance mocked him for. _Rat tails, haven’t seen that since the twenty-first century. Lava lamp era, am I right?_ “I’m not even a cadet.” 

Shiro flushed. “All the same,” he tried, weakly, “you should be recognized. There are civilian-specific medals, public service ribbons. A Medal of Honor—”

“I don’t want anything from the Garrison,” Keith interrupted sharply. “I think I’ll be more useful out there. With the Blades.”

“The Blades? So you’re not staying here.” 

“No,” Keith said, “what’s left for me to do? I don’t want to re-enroll. I don’t have family here like Lance and Pidge and Hunk. I’m not a tech genius or a diplomat. I’m...nothing here.” 

“Don’t say that,” Shiro said. “You never were nothing.” 

Keith’s smile was more sardonic than he’d seen before. “Yeah?”

This bothered him; he’d never seen Keith so down on himself, not since their early Garrison days. “I mean it,” he said. “You have so much to contribute; you’re still the best pilot in the Garrison. You could teach, if you wanted. And they’re talking about installing an Earth representative for the Coalition; you’d be perfect, and I can put your name forward—” 

“No,” Keith interrupted. “That’s not me. I’m a paladin; I don’t need some fancy title.” He probably meant nothing by it, but Shiro still felt stung. “I never really belonged here. Not like you.” 

It was true; even back then, he’d been painfully aware Keith seemed to be counted out before being officially met, all while Shiro’s star kept rising. Shiro had hated it, though loved it, too: the spotlight was the best place to hide. 

“You can do anything,” Keith continued. “Nothing can stop you. After all,” he said, looking at Shiro, unusually serious, with something Shiro _knew_ but had buried deep, deep down inside once again, “you’re easy to love.”

**CHAPTER FIVE**

In her lab, Pidge flicks through Shiro’s inbox. 

_You should have died at Kerberos. Monster, puppet of the Galra. You thought your life was worth more than theirs?_

Those are the kindest ones. But the pictures, the descriptions of the lost, are the worst. _Look at them,_ they demand. _Look at what you’ve done._

Names and ages and stories haunt his nightmares, along with memories that used to be long buried. He remembers some, but not all, and those are the ones he’s most ashamed of—that he can’t even recall his own complicity, the weight of a life being crushed in his fingers. 

Finally, she looks up at him. “I’m creating a filter, so you stop receiving them.”

“No,” Shiro says. 

Pidge narrows her eyes. “I called you here for a reason, Shiro. These showed up with red flags. There are _death threats._ At least report them! Or go after them for harassment.”

“I’m not ‘going after’ any of them, Pidge,” he says firmly. “Think about what it looks like.” 

For a few seconds, she looks like she’s about to argue further, but instead, hangs her head. “I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t—”

“No,” Shiro tells her. “Don’t blame yourself. You’ve helped so many people with this project. You can’t think of just me.”

He’s kept inside, obsentisbily for his own safety. Even then, it’s hard to ignore the whispers, the articles, the reports, the faces of the victims being broadcast around the universe. 

Pidge bites her lip. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats. “If I had known…” 

“I would have told you to release the information,” Shiro says calmly. “People deserve to know what happened to their loved ones.” 

Pidge soon delivers another blow: “My dad, Matt, and I were going to speak to the press. Give you some defense. But the Garrison ordered us to not talk.” She bites her lip. “Even came to our door and mentioned me, specifically.” 

They’re thinking of Kerberos, he guesses, and the efforts to crank out the Garrison’s secret records throughout the years. Matt and Sam had been willing to let that go, but Pidge had steadfastly campaigned for them to be released, for the Garrison to take responsibility. 

And now, it must be ironic: Pidge, advocating for transparency and not protecting anyone, regardless of their position or public image, then this. 

“Don’t risk anything for me,” Shiro warns. “I mean it, Pidge. This needs to be handled delicately. The Garrison…” 

“Is probably working to make sure it doesn’t make _them_ look bad,” she spits. “They don’t want anything to taint them.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Shiro says. He understands, in a way. Someone always has to be blamed, and it can’t be the Earth’s only military, the one people look up to for protection. A leader must be strong, invulnerable, untouchable. A leader is someone to be leaned on, not the other way around. He understands that more than ever.

Earth is in a steady position of trust, and it would be stupidly precarious to risk that, for him. 

“But it shouldn’t be that way!” she exclaims. “They have to defend you!”

“What do you want them to do? Pidge, they can’t sweep this under the rug, and I don’t want them to.” 

Pidge shakes her head. “I don’t know. But I know what you did for my family, and Matt definitely does. We’ll raise awareness through the media, through the Coalition. Someone to stand up for you.”

Shiro’s chest tightens, and without a word, embraces Pidge.

* * *

Keith still hasn’t been in contact. He’s already sent messages to Krolia, to Kolivan, but so far, nothing. 

Shiro’s worried more for him, especially now. The footage had undone, it seems, most of their work of keeping the peace. At the fresh reminder of the Empire, there have been cancelled diplomatic meetings, protests and riots in various quadrants, even threats of violence to Blade members, to ordinary former citizens. There’s talk of official retribution.

He reads the news. There are debates about justice, about the Galra’s military (what’s left of it) being dismantled, soldiers and citizens alike not being able to carry weapons, paying hefty reparations, calls for blocking trade, even other military being installed on Daibazaal to patrol. There are features and longform articles about the various destructions of environments, cultures, technology, lives. Tickers of the missing and the dead, with profiles and interviews with the remaining family and planet representatives. 

There’s one terrible op-ed, one that everyone warns Shiro not to read, that drags Keith into it. About Shiro’s defense of him, of Daibazaal, in official diplomatic meetings (where did they get that information, he wonders), of “siding” and “lenience” and “willful blindness to the damage of the Empire.” And, the article insinuated, their _closeness_ made all negotiations unethical…

“Bullshit,” Matt tells him after catching him reading it for the tenth time. “No one believes that.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Shiro says, putting away his datapad, “because there’s talks of an intergalactic trial.” 

Matt frowns. “That can’t be right.” 

“I’m the representative of Earth, and I killed civilians,” Shiro says softly. “I should be held accountable.” 

“You’re not a criminal,” Matt protests. “It’s not like the Galra rebels the Blades keep going after; you were—” 

“Still complicit.”

* * *

He’s technically excused from work, both the Garrison and the Coalition, but keeps going, swimming through the hurricane of news stories and analyses and whispers from his colleagues. Other officers, especially from Atlas and the MFEs, have the decency not to ask about it, except for an occasional coy, _how are you doing?_

But some, especially the cadets, have no such reservations. There’s the newscast playing daily in the officer’s lounge; every time he walks in for a cup of coffee or to heat up his dinner, there’s another red banner across the screen exclaiming BREAKING, even though it’s the same story, with rehashed arguments and interviews. He sees datapads: muted audio amid informative videos with bright text and photos, more newscasts and articles with highlighted links, even his own profile page. And of course, social media. 

He wonders how many of them have passed around his name, trying to one-up each other: _I knew Shirogane; he was in my flight class...taught my year...is in my section down the hall..._

It’s not out of malice, he senses, just simple curiosity. But it’s eager, page-turning, and it feels like everywhere he goes—down the hall for another meeting, walking back to his quarters, out in town just to get out of the Garrison—there are eyes on him. 

It was one thing when he was the star pilot, the darling of the Galaxy Garrison. It’s another to be a potential war criminal, a murderer in the simplest terms. He even turns away when commercials for a new action movie come on: all punching and bloodied knuckles and bones shattering. _Not me,_ he thinks, _it’s not me; it’s not._

 _It could be anything,_ he reminds himself. _It’s not always about you._

But he hears, or thinks he does: _His bare hands. All that blood. I could never. Completely savage. Trained by the Galra themselves! Did you see..._

* * *

 _It could be worse,_ Pidge told him, with a minute level of optimism neither of them felt. _It could be Kerberos._

He knows, from the brief mentions around the table in the Castle or from Keith’s muttered explanation about his expulsion, after an argument with Lance. _They threw you under the bus,_ Keith had said. _They treated you like...well, like me._

Shiro never looked at articles or anything like that upon his return to Earth, especially after the Garrison welcomed him back with open arms _(after they tied you to a table,_ a voice reminds him, _and they wouldn’t have if it weren’t wartime, would they?)_. He hadn’t dared. 

Now, though, Shiro thinks, it must have been this. The arguments: whose fault was it, who was responsible, could this have been prevented, what exactly went wrong, who held the majority of the blame? The constant stream, as if nothing else in the world was happening: profiles, pseudo-psychological articles, timelines, the inner workings. And the demands: of defense, of justice, of what to do next. 

_You could ask me,_ he thinks. But no one does, not really, and he’s not allowed to respond, anyway.

* * *

He hands in his resignation the next day.

Shiro chooses the time very deliberately, when he knows Iverson will be teaching the piloting class, while the office staff are on their lunch break. He places the letter on his desk and walks away.

He knows that Iverson will be beating down his door, demanding that he change his mind. He knows Matt and Sam will try to confront him in their own way, through drinks or through a family dinner. He knows the word will spread across the Garrison, whispers of shock and dismay and maybe a little relief.

So, Shiro does what he hasn’t allowed himself to do in a long time—run.

The soft purr of the hoverbike vibrates through his palms, fingers closing around the handlebars and boots pressing down hard on the pedals.

He and Keith used to do this, a long time ago when he thought his life was his own. When the race, the thrill of zipping through the orange-touched canyons, was enough to take his mind off his responsibilities. When everything was stripped away but the joy of flying, freedom. 

The Galaxy Garrison told him: there were calls for Shiro to resign.

 _It’ll send a message,_ Pidge suggested, with fear in her eyes. _You’re sorry,_ _and with that, you might be spared._ And, she’d added bitterly, _It lets the Garrison off the hook. Washing their hands of it all._

He remembers signing his name on the form, feeling like when Haggar blasted the quintessence out of his body, yanking it out and leaving him weightless, at the mercy of Zarkon. 

This time, though, he’s at the mercy of the universe. 

He always was, of course, through his ticking clock of a body. But Shiro could always reach for the stars, race against time, and make it matter. He’s climbed ladders and shattered records and done things not even people twice his age have accomplished, worked harder than anyone else he knew. He’s always _tried_ to have a semblance of control.

Now, it’s like being in that waiting room, extending his arm for needles and closing his eyes as his body was carried into another machine. _It’s out of your hands._

Signing up for the Garrison was his chance. His only chance, one of his only triumphs. And now, it’s all dissolved into nothing.

* * *

Shiro believes in alternate realities; it’s nothing new, compared to how he grew up: muttered prayers, explanations, excuses of what could have been prevented and how and what this meant due to a specific time or place. His mom looking at the calendar, refusing to make appointments on certain dates; his father, thinking back to all the signs of the disease that would eat his life away; his grandfather, talking about this disaster and the next and weaving it into fragmented philosophies to predict the future. It drove him crazy, and hearing a similar thing from a crazed, fast-talking alien never improved his mood. 

But still, Shiro wonders: if he hadn’t been chosen for the Kerberos mission at all, if he’d told Lance to pull the Blue Lion back to Earth, if the Black Lion hadn’t chosen him, if he’d simply died before everything… Even the tiniest choices, when he lays in bed after midnight: what if he hadn’t released Sendak during his panic attack, his moment of weakness, in the Castle? Didn’t he indirectly cause the Earth invasion that took away so many? Adam’s? 

What could he have done? 

His justifications bubble out from his lips, useless as dandelion puffs floating away in the wind. _I was trying to survive. I was trying to get back home. I did what I had to do._

He could have injured himself so he could go to a work camp. He could have refused, declaring his principles. He could have died, millions of miles away from home.

 _I could have died,_ he thinks. _I could have died._

But Shiro knows he couldn’t have. He was too weak for that.

* * *

Despite everything, the Coalition confirms that there will be a trial. 

They also tell him that Atlas is grounded.

They tell him it’s a potential weapon of war, that there aren’t defenses strong enough to fight against it, that their citizens have become fearful of retaliation. The Garrison agrees with this, which is news to him. 

“But what about the summits? The diplomatic missions?” he asks, even though there’s suspicion brewing in his head, calculating what this is leading up to. Because there wouldn’t be a com call with all of the representatives in attendance just to tell him that he can’t fly Atlas. 

And he’s right. Horribly right. Because out of ethical and public image concerns, he’s no longer the Earth representative for the Galactic Coalition.

* * *

Without the Garrison, too, Shiro loses his quarters. He also no longer has a paycheck, save what the Garrison gives him as “restitution,” but it’s nowhere near enough to live out the rest of his days comfortably. 

He should be glad that they haven’t taken his arm. It’s Garrison-built and Garrison-given and counted as a weapon he should have to turn in, like Atlas, but either no one thought of that or simply decided it would be too cruel.

It’s the first time, really, he has to think about going and finding a place of his own. A job, eventually. Shiro thought he was alone before securing a pilot slot in the Garrison, but he had been armed with grandfather’s inheritance and Garrison support. Now, he’s completely reliant on his own resources.

At age thirty, it’s a humbling experience. He could get a job working at the corner store, selling hiking supplies to people who want to trek through the desert. He could be a secretary, answering phones and filing papers. Or he could wander the streets, live like the vagabond he’d dreamed about before signing up for the Garrison. 

_You can be anything,_ Shiro’s grandfather had told him. He probably didn’t think of Shiro ending up like this.

 _Keith,_ he thinks, alone in the cramped guest room, trying to ignore the whispers from the Holts in the kitchen and the guilt of their food in his stomach, the nights he’s going to spend in their bed. _Where are you? I need you._


	2. Part Two: Keith

**CHAPTER ONE**

Keith ends the call and sighs. It’s always nice to talk to Shiro, but they hide so much from each other, even now. For one, Shiro’s caught on to the fact Keith’s on Altea, and though Keith promised Lance he’d keep their mission secret, he still feels slightly guilty. Allura, after all, was close to Shiro, too. 

He stretches his arms above his head, cranks his neck from side to side, and wanders outside. Several Alteans nod to him, though a few step off the path to avoid him, and those Keith pretends not to notice.

Lance is standing in front of Allura’s statue, gazing up at her face and looking like he hasn’t slept in days. It’s still strange to see the marks on his cheekbones and the blue Altean robes. “Keith,” he says, with a tired wave. 

“Lance,” Keith replies, crossing over to stand next to him. “No more groups today?” 

“No,” Lance says. “Mostly just been helping the Alteans resettle, messaging my folks back home to make sure they haven’t eaten Kaltenecker.” 

Keith chuckles. “They haven’t?” 

“The kids campaigned on her behalf,” Lance says, eyes brightening a bit. “Veronica told me she also spun this tale of whether the meat would be contaminated from space and all that. Luckily, no one knows that we drank milk back at the Castle.” 

“How is Veronica? Haven’t heard from her lately.” 

“Sometimes piloting Atlas, though since there’s not much of it, working with various groups around the universe. Think she’s actually on Arus now.” 

“Good.” He wants to ask more, but Lance doesn’t seem in the mood; it must be one of his low days. Like Keith, Lance does better with _something_ to do, and since it’s a slow day… 

It’s during these where things could get ugly, like after the memorial, when Lance started speculating about obtaining something—he didn’t know what—to store Allura’s essence, so Lance could talk to it like she did with Alfor. Or finding a crack somewhere out there, like when they stumbled upon alternative universe Shiro and Slav and evil Alteans. Or going back to where they’d fought Honerva and looked, just once...

He understands, and thinks that’s the reason why his relationship with Lance has strengthened while everyone else drifted apart. Pidge and Hunk’s natures are to move on, not that he could blame them, and Shiro was far too busy and shut off whenever Allura was mentioned. 

Keith had been there when the team had been requested to do a show of arms during one of their post-Hoverva tours, back when they had the lions. Lance stormed off—“there is no Voltron without Allura!”—and the echo jolted Keith to follow him, then go along with whatever idea Lance had between his Blade missions. 

Keith supposes he’s not the best person to tell Lance to move on, though he knows Lance has been told so from the team, from Coran, even Krolia. He never quite learned how to do that, either. 

“So,” Keith now says, “nothing yet. But I’ve started tracking with the information you gave me, what people saw, you know.” 

Lance finally looks at him, hope heartbreakingly open on his face. “You sure?” 

“It’ll take a while,” Keith admits, “but we’re not giving up.” 

“I’m not sure why I can’t sense much of anything,” Lance mourns. “Even with these…” He touches one of his markings, as gently as a child’s finger on a bubble. “It comes in fits and spurts, though, and I dream of her. Every night.” 

“I know.” Keith places a hand on Lance’s shoulder. It’s all he can think of to say. 

The communicator on his wrist beeps, and Axca’s face appears in the air as a glowing hologram. “Keith,” she says. “We got a ping on our target’s location.”

“All right,” Keith says. Anything to keep from going back to Daibazaal. “Let’s head out.” He ends the communication, then turns to Lance. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find something. I promise.” 

Lance smiles. “Thanks. Go get ‘em.”

* * *

The Blade’s been split up after the war, taking on a mish-mash of tasks Kolivan assigns or the Coalition directs them to. Keith’s team works on an as-needed basis, hunting down warlords and dissenters, cooling off occasional rebel activity. 

_Keith, alien Nazi hunter,_ Lance likes to call him. It’s not that far-off, actually. 

Krolia, though, thinks he should be doing more—and he’s staying far away from that, thank you very much. He focuses on the controls in his hands, on the rest of the crew going over the specs in the back: Acxa’s the one reviewing it out loud on a holo-tablet, Zethrid’s wondering how much she can beat the former warlord into a pulp without being noticed, and Ezor’s mock (he hopes)-encouraging her. 

“No injuries,” Keith repeats. Sometimes, it feels like minding the kids back at the home instead of a rebel organization. “If he struggles, that’s another thing, but we are not going to be taken in for prisoner mistreatment or brutality. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Zethrid mutters gloomily. 

_That won’t be us,_ Keith thinks. This is his team, his portion of the Blades, and he’s not going to risk jeopardizing reputations—especially about the _bloodthirsty, brutish Galra_ —any further. _We’re peace-keepers,_ he’s told them all throughout the years. _Not enforcers._

Acxa says something Keith can only pick out a few words of: _Galra, safe, generals_ , then Lotor’s name. The mention of him still makes Keith uneasy; he’s only met Lotor in person a handful of times, more than the rest of the paladins, but feels like he’s been stepping into a dead man’s shoes more than once with his former generals.

 _Your,_ Krolia reminded him when Kolivan first assigned them to Keith’s team. _Your generals. Your command._

In the distance, the planet’s taking shape: dark red, with gray clouds and twelve golden moons. Keith takes a breath, presses a few buttons, and proceeds forward.

* * *

The planet is almost as green as Olkarion, full of lush hills and trees whose leaves hang to the ground like curtains. The sky is gray, with silvery and shadowed clouds, but the weather is warm, humid in a way that makes Keith actually begin to miss Arizona’s dry, breezeless air. 

They have local clothing, procured by Ezor, and Keith tells them to go in pairs, make as little disturbance as possible, and do reconnaissance first. If they see the guy, learn his habits and then prepare for an extraction. 

This time, they don’t have to disguise their Galra features; Acxa reassured them that it wasn’t necessary. Keith, however, has to make some changes to his appearance, since he’s the most recognizable out of the entire group for obvious reasons; he’s given a light dusting of purple and fake ears, which Ezor snickers at and moves towards her datapad, finger pressing on the camera icon. 

“No,” Keith says, then rubbing his forehead, asks Acxa to accompany him.

No one so much as blinks at the strangers in town: some even nodding politely, approaching their group to ask if they need a place to stay or some food from the local market. “They like us,” he says quietly to Acxa, half-joking. 

Axca only nods, politely waving off three small children running around their heels. “I’ve been here before.” 

“With Lotor?” Keith guesses. 

“Yes,” she says, “they sheltered us, which was unusual and rather brave of them, considering Lotor’s position at the time. But they seemed to want to look the other way, which hasn’t changed, I see.” 

“Look the other way?” Keith says. “Is that a good or a bad thing for us?” 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “They tend to be hospitable and protective of their own.”

Keith pauses, takes in the faces around them, wondering how he didn’t see it before. “Galra,” he says slowly. 

“Yes,” Acxa says. “One of the Empire’s oldest colonies.” She waves a hand. “The Galra...moved into this planet, established their bases and ship-building enterprises here.” 

“And they haven’t been asked to leave?” Keith asks lowly. “Not even by the Blades? The Coalition?” 

Axca shakes her head. “It’s more complicated than that. Ten thousand years, and this is the Galra’s home, too.”

When Keith frowns, she admits, “It’s not perfect. But think about it, Keith, if we order either of them to move, it’s going to get ugly. The residents—it’s their original planet; why should they leave? The Galra—they might make the same argument, except that by now, it’s theirs.”

 _Not really,_ Keith thinks, but decides to let it go. They do, after all, have a mission.

* * *

He and Axca settle in at the planet’s equivalent of an inn. Pidge’s cloaking should hide their ship, but still, it’s good to maintain a silent, background presence for these kinds of missions. They both eat in the outdoor market for dinner, Keith allowing Axca to do most of the talking, since she has more experience here and even knows a little of the local dialect. Some mistake them for a young couple looking to settle, and though neither of them discourage the notion, Keith can’t help but store up all the cooing compliments to snicker over with Shiro later. 

They both ask casual questions about the area, if there are many visitors like them, managing to narrow down a few leads about newer residents who’ve settled in around the approximate time frame. 

“Some are like you,” a resident tells them sympathetically, “not liking the Empire or Coalition telling them how to live.”

“This isn’t official territory?” Keith asks, curious. 

“We don’t belong to either,” someone else adds, a bit sharply. She nods towards the other vendors, chatting and calling out their wares, occasionally scolding children for getting into the barrels. “We have no quarrel, and this is the best place for some of the children, considering…” 

Keith sees flashes of ordinary life: kids chasing each other through the streets, holding onto their parents’ hands, jabbering in a language Keith barely speaks two sentences of. But most of them: recognizable as having Galra blood. 

“I understand,” Acxa says softly. 

Keith nods slowly, remembering Acxa never talked about her childhood. “It...seems nice, growing up here,” he admits. Keith’s been to conquered territories—freed some of them, too—and this is different. 

“Relationships here aren’t as...contentious,” the vendor says kindly. “We built lives together, not like the rest of the Empire.”

* * *

That night, Keith turns in his bed, head too full of thoughts to sleep. 

He’s wondered, especially with the Blades, what it would have been like to have had answers all his life—if he knew he was Galra, if he grew up as one. On the base, many of them were from colonies like this one, or half-Galra, like Lotor’s generals. And some, like Ulaz, had worked their way into the ranks to take the system down from the inside, even if it meant doing it alone. 

But all of them shared something: a childhood song, a favorite food, a common language, some nuance Keith kept having to have explained to him like he was, well, from another planet—a line he could never cross. 

Could things have been different for him? This idyllic? 

No, Keith decides firmly, because Zarkon would have still been around. With that, he rolls over, closes his eyes, and hopes everything will come together tomorrow.

**CHAPTER TWO**

Keith and Acxa enter the warlord’s residence, blades raised. Janka—Keith remembers him, one of those who fled from Kral Zera, an expansive fleet, a trade-and-travel expert, and full of political connections and money from bribes, if not much fighting ability. But Keith knows enough not to underestimate him; he had been smarter than most of the renegades, having a fallback plan before the war even ended. 

How long had he been planning this? Did he suspect Voltron would prevail, or was this just a paranoid contingency? Who else helped him, or knew? It irks Keith; someone like Janka could have been a useful inside man. Ulaz and Thace had been the closest to Zarkon on Central Command, but they were warriors, not politicians. 

Looking around, Keith notices Janka had taken pains to avoid suspicion: very few possessions, odds and ends of things that could have come from anywhere, a tattered tunic thrown over a chair. Axca’s combing through drawers and crevices, finding bags of GAC, broken down into smaller and smaller amounts. So far, no signs of papers or identification, and really, it didn’t matter; lots of the refugees they encountered had none. If Janka was as intelligent as they thought, he would have ditched any a long time ago. 

“Keith,” Acxa whispers, “look at this.” 

In Acxa’s hand are a pair of goggles. She fiddles with the side, the lenses glowing a soft gold, and cautiously, puts them over her own face. “They’re definitely his,” she says. “They might have information, his networks…” 

“Evidence,” Keith mutters, as Acxa tucks it away in a hidden pocket of her suit, “the Coalition would like that.” 

The door creaks, and they both turn around to the sight of Janka, dressed in the local clothing, strolling through with a variety of fruit and jars. His eyes comically widen. “What—” 

In no time, Keith has him in a headlock, groceries crashing to the floor. Janka struggles, cursing, as Acxa wrestles cuffs on him. “What are you doing?” he demands. 

“Warlord Janka, you are arrested for crimes against the galaxy,” Acxa says. “You’re coming with us to be tried in front of the Galactic Coalition.” 

“Tried!” His eyes land on Acxa. “ _You’re_ one of Lotor’s generals! Along with the other two, they were warlords, same as me—” 

“Not the same,” Keith says sharply. “They fought against Honerva with Voltron.” 

“Wartime immunity,” Janka mutters, narrowing his eyes, “smart of them, to secure that from the Coalition. But I’m not hurting anyone; I’m just trying to make a new life for myself…” 

“You’re trying to escape responsibility,” Keith replies, unmoved. 

“I’m only guilty of bribery, of tariffs,” Janka protests, voice wheedling. Keith’s already considering gagging him. “Not like those other warlords, with their brutality and bloodshed on their hands! I only wanted to survive; I never invaded your planet, like Commander Sendak; I was only trying to keep order within the Empire, following orders like any loyal Galra—” 

Acxa yanks him forward, moving towards the entrance, as excuses and deals spill from his lips: he can give them names and locations, money from hidden accounts, anything that would reduce his sentence; he was only a bureaucrat and not like the other warlords. 

Keith glares at him, moving so his blade glistens ever so slightly in the sunlight. “Shut up,” he warns. 

Janka shuts up. 

* * *

Keith oversees Acxa and Zethrid dragging Janka into a secure cell before letting Kolivan know of the new capture and wearily starts a course back to their base. This is his least favorite part of any mission, the adrenaline and determination of the pursuit being over. All he has to do is hand Janka over, get his next mission, repeat. 

Which, Keith reminds himself, is what he wants. 

He wants to call Shiro, but is too worn out and senses he’ll have nothing much to say; besides, he’s not supposed to reveal the particulars of his mission. Lance hasn’t sent him any new messages, but Keith pulls up the contents of his datapad, pinpricks lined carefully in a row. 

With a few taps, a map’s projected in the air, and Keith moves his fingers, highlighting possible routes, though he has a deep suspicion of where they lead. It should be impossible, but everything adds up: Lance’s perusing of books and interviewing the other Alteans, Keith’s...he’s still not sure what to call it still, and their combined research. But Honerva…

Keith sighs, flicking his hand downwards, the map dissolving into thin air. He has to trust Lance, if nothing else. 

_It would have been nice,_ a voice whispers in the edges of his mind, _if anyone helped you back then, too…_

He shuts that down immediately. There’s proof this time. A pattern. Not aimless searching. Not pure intuition—denial, he’d heard them call it…

_Look, once is a miracle, twice is the beginning of a pattern, and from what you told me? Lotor? The astral plane? The thing with Macidus? It all makes sense. And with the two of us..._

“Right,” Keith says out loud. He wishes he could tell Shiro, but he and Lance both promised to not tell the team until it was certain. No one wanted false hope, and since the rest of the team seemed to be moving on just fine, it seemed unnecessarily cruel. And Keith thinks that Lance worries once it’s said out loud, all chances would burst like a soap bubble, and he can’t go through that, not after all these years of searching. 

Keith knows how that is, of course.

* * *

In his dreams, Allura’s in her paladin armor, arms around him one last time. _There is greatness in your heart and your actions,_ she whispers. Everywhere is glowing silver and beautiful, everyone entirely too still, too numb. It was the war, he’d tried to tell himself later, throwing every horrible thing it could and numbing everything to cope. But they shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have given up like that...

Allura pulls away with a brave smile, walking over to Lance and holding both of his hands and gazing up at him tenderly. Tears slide down Lance’s face as they say their goodbyes. 

_Stop her!_ Keith shouts in his head, but no one moves. 

Too soon, Allura kisses Lance, and the marks of the chosen glow blue on Lance’s cheeks. Keith tries to make his feet go, do _something_ , but he’s not in control. He can only watch Allura and Honerva walk towards a brilliant golden portal, knowing what he’ll see—the past paladins, Lotor—but now, something different makes him freeze. 

It’s Shiro, in his paladin armor and his old haircut, shoulder-to-shoulder with Alfor. Keith whirls around, frantic, only seeing Pidge and Hunk and Lance. “Shiro!” he cries. 

_You brought me back,_ Shiro says, voice reverberating in Keith’s skull, soft and steady. He feels a phantom touch on his shoulder, sees a cosmic array of purple and black and silver. _You brought me back._ There’s a purple aura around him, now, around Keith’s trembling hands at his sides. _You can do this again..._

Gasping awake, Keith shoots up in bed. Shiro’s alive, he knows. Shiro is safe on Earth. 

He swipes at his datapad to check the time. There’s a message from Pidge. _Hey,_ she’s reminding him, _send the info as soon as you can, thanks._

Keith sits up, perches his datapad on his knees. 

**CHAPTER THREE**

The next morning, there’s a scuffle—apparently Janka swiped back his goggles without Axca noticing—and the rest of the team is on edge, waiting for a potential escape attempt or an impromptu rescue. Keith checks the security systems like a maniac, Zethrid storms off to spar after nearly getting into a fight with two of the crewmembers, Ezor paces around the ship with the occasional cartwheel, and Axca barricades herself in her room with her datapad. She doesn’t go with Keith to visit Janka in the cells. 

Janka doesn’t tell Keith if he did or didn’t do anything, which is expected, and short of torture and coercion, there’s not much he can do on his own. Keith’s about to declare this entire exchange over when Janka asks, “How many Galra pledged themselves to the Coalition?” 

“I don’t know the exact number,” Keith lies. “But it’s too late for you to join up, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

“If Lotor’s generals have, then others must have followed. They’re formidable, and the Galra admire strength. I bet you’ve got Lahn?” 

Keith tries not to react, but Janka must see something. “Thought so. Victory or death, especially if you defeated him in combat.”

“He joined of his own free will,” Keith says shortly. 

Janka shakes his head. “The Galra will do whatever it takes to survive. You know it, don’t you? You have some of that in you, being Galra yourself.” 

Keith ignores the attempt at camaraderie. “I’m also human. And humans can be just as stubborn.” 

Janka shrugs, taking the rebuff quite cheerfully. “Fair enough. It runs in the Black Paladins, doesn’t it?” 

“Shiro isn’t Galra.” 

“I remember him as one, though, or as good,” Janka says, almost conversationally. “I was at the arena, quite a bit, for business. Your former leader fought like he was Empire-trained.”

Keith remembers Zarkon’s words to him in that first battle. _You fight like a Galra soldier!_

Janka continues: “Champion. Quite famous across the empire after a fashion, really led to the initial cautiousness around Voltron. Sendak had tales, too, when he was found floating in that tank years ago. He wanted to see if your planet could be absorbed into the Empire, but—”

“Stop,” Keith interrupts.

“But they weren’t as formidable.” Janka sits back. “Your planet doesn’t share the same spirit. Held out quite admirably, but nothing like the tales I heard around the Empire. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if he, or your Voltron, would be regarded as hushed threats, nightmares in the dark, years later, if not now. Even Zarkon spoke of him, before.” 

“Don’t tell me what your _emperor_ said about Shiro,” Keith snaps.

Janka shrugs. “Why not? Combat is the searing light that burns away imperfections, they say, and Zarkon believed it to be true, as did his witch.” 

“Shiro,” Keith says, unable to keep quiet, “is a million times the man Zarkon ever was, and has more honor than any of Zarkon’s soldiers had combined. And he was like that far before that arena.” 

He knows he’s made a mistake, letting Janka goad him into responding, and Janka knows it, too. His lips stretch in a sneer. “Right. You and the old Black Paladin are lovers, it’s rumored. Which of you is more Galra? Does he tell you about his days as Champion when the lights are down, touch you with his bloodied Druid hand—” 

Keith slams his hand against the glass, and is vilified to see Janka jump. “Fuck you.” He turns on his heel and walks out, wishing he could slam the door shut behind him.

* * *

Janka’s presence seems to be poison: the wary glances around the ship, the brief pause before following Keith’s orders, the tenser atmosphere that seems to almost immediately follow after a visit to Janka’s cell. Space is dangerous enough, and although Keith’s mostly sure mutiny isn’t on the table, he can’t let Janka destroy what he’s built over the years. It took him and Zethrid a long time to be in the same room without awkward silence, or for him to get the confidence to give out commands in the same vein as Axca. 

So Keith decides he has to deal with Janka alone. 

He was right in being cautious, and remembering how the former warlord pushed his buttons, vows to keep a clear head. It’s difficult, though; Janka’s seemed to have his finger in every pie in the Empire and then some. Some of the information is useful, but Keith suspects these are nothing, just crumbs that Janka has so generously allowed to fall: names of former associates, a few old trade disputes, even bits about Lotor. 

“They tracked him, of course,” Janka says. “Banished, but still quite dangerous, and isolation made him even more so.” 

Keith privately agrees. No friends, no allies, everyone waiting to stab you in the back—he was very familiar with that. If he hadn’t had his dad at all in his childhood, Shiro reaching a hand out to him, Voltron, the Blades, the later reassurance of his mother’s love...

He tries to push those thoughts away. The past is the past; he could never be what Lotor allowed himself to become. 

“Your loyalty to the Champion is admirable,” Janka says, seemingly out of nowhere, but Keith knows it’s about to go somewhere. He’s winding up, ready for the hit. “It makes me wonder what would have happened if someone in the Empire had that same loyalty.” 

Keith wishes he could leave, but Janka hasn’t finished his food and he’s slippery enough to stow something to use later; he proved that with his goggles earlier. “Eat your dinner,” Keith says shortly. 

“No, the Empire wouldn’t have taken care of you. Perhaps if...you could have been one of Lotor’s half-breed generals,” Janka muses, “and in the same position, a warlord—” 

Keith bares his teeth.

Janka only waves that away. “You imagined you would have followed your mother’s path, if you thought about it all. But do you know how despicably the Empire treated those without full blood? I always thought it ridiculous; conquer the galaxy and you’re bound to have some progeny out of it. Perhaps your mother—”

“It wasn’t like that,” Keith snaps, “not with me.” 

“No,” Janka says, “but without her influence, without those Blades, where would you have turned? I’ve heard tales; you fight to win, for a greater purpose, without the fear of death.” 

For a greater purpose. 

_“Maybe we shouldn't go on this mission at all. Think about it. We'll be delivering the universe's only hope to the universe's biggest enemy.”_

_“Keith, that's cold, even for you. What if it was one of us? What if it was me? You wouldn't leave me, would you? Would you?"_

_“I'm not saying I like the idea. I'm just thinking like a paladin.”_

_That’s not me,_ Keith thinks, ignoring the guilt pooling in his stomach. _Not anymore._

“Finish your food,” Keith repeats, and probably because he’s sensed he’s hit Keith where it hurts, Janka does.

* * *

Acxa finds him on the sparring deck, punching every robot gladiator as hard as he can. “That’s where you’ve been. We haven’t seen you all day.”

He sighs, pauses the simulation. “Sorry. It’s just…” 

“Janka,” Acxa says wryly, striding forward. She’s in her Blades robes, twirling a knife in her fingers; it’s not luxite, even though Daibazaal is back. No one can agree who owns the rights to the mines, and it’s the thieves and profiteers who make the gains while everyone’s squabbling. 

She deserves a proper Blade, Keith thinks. 

“Yeah,” Keith admits. “He sure knows how to get to you.” 

“Of course he does. He’s always been a master manipulator,” Acxa says. “Even Lotor disliked dealing with him, as calculated as he was.” 

That name brings Keith to another standstill; Acxa clearly sees it, tilting her head. “Janka used him against me, too. And against Ezor and Zethrid. But you didn’t know him as well. What did Janka say?” 

Keith sighs again. “Just...what might have happened if I didn’t fall in with the Blades. And it got me thinking about all the things that could have gone wrong. What I could have become.” 

“Like Lotor,” Acxa finishes, a frown spreading across her face. 

He hesitates before asking, “What...made you join up with him? If you want to tell.” 

“I was born and bred to hate myself, but also to fight to make myself worthy of a world ruled by the Galra, and Lotor understood us like no one else did. Surviving by telling yourself to make yourself stronger than your enemies.” She looks at him. “I have a feeling you understand that, too.” 

Silently, Keith nods. 

“I don’t know what might have happened if I hadn’t met him. But I had already done terrible things in the name of keeping myself safe. With him, I could find more justifications and a friend.” At Keith’s continued silence, she says, “I know how you and your team feel about him. But I think Allura saw what he could have become, if not for so many circumstances and choices.” 

“You think that? He could have…?” 

“I don’t know.” Acxa pauses, before saying, “There’s something Veronica told me years ago, that some people will always see Galra as the conquerors. And that’s understandable.” Acxa lays a hand on Keith’s arm. “But she also said she wants to see the person I became. The one who turned her life around. _That’s_ what matters, Keith. That we keep trying to do the best we can.

“I ask myself constantly: can we redeem ourselves after everything we’ve done? I don’t know, and we can’t change the past. But we can keep trying, and we need more people like Veronica to believe in us. And that’s the purpose of the Blades.” 

Keith lets out a breath. “Thanks, Acxa.” He turns to look her in the eyes, considering. “You know. Mom should be asking _you_ to lead, not me.” 

Acxa shakes her head. “I don’t think so. The Empire remembers me.” 

At that, Keith sighs. “There’s no such thing as a totally clean slate for a leader, is there?” 

“There never is,” Acxa says. 

**CHAPTER FOUR**

He’s glad to see the back of Janka when they finally arrive at the designated checkpoint. “Don’t let him talk,” he mutters to Krolia, when Blade agents haul him away. 

She raises an eyebrow. “What did he say?” 

“Only lies, and pleas to save his own skin,” Keith says shortly. “How is everything?” 

Thankfully, she accepts the subject change. “As well as it could be. In Daibazaal, there’s much debate on how it should be run, talk of reparations we cannot afford, as well as downsizing or eliminating the military and keeping conquered territories. The Coalition...is considering these avenues as well. 

Keith frowns. Those topics have been thrown around a few times, but this time, it seems more serious if she’s mentioning the Coalition. “Why would they get involved now?” 

“Unrest,” Krolia says, then begins walking. Keith follows, bemused, as Krolia lowers her voice. “Keith. Do you know much about Shiro’s time in Zarkon’s arena?” 

“Why?” Keith asks suspiciously. 

“Evidence from that time has been brought to our attention. To the galaxy’s.” 

“For what reason?” 

“We don’t know. But matters on Daibazaal are more unsettled now than ever. Atlas has ceased going to peace talks.” 

Keith doesn’t like where this is going. “Is it that bad?” 

“I don’t know,” Krolia admits. “But my instincts are telling me it’s only going to get worse, and the Coalition,” her voice lowers even more, “is investigating.” 

“Where the information came from?” Keith demands. “Or Shiro?” 

“Shiro,” she says. 

Something hits him, right then, in the pit of his stomach. “I have to get to him,” Keith manages. 

“I know how important he is to you,” Krolia says, not unsympathetically, “but you flying down there all of a sudden, with your emotions clouding the whole situation, it won’t be a good idea.” 

Keith narrows his eyes. “You’re quoting someone, aren’t you? Kolivan?” She doesn’t answer, but Keith already can tell; he’s heard the lecture before. “Kolivan can—” 

“Keith,” she says softly. “Don’t. Think of your position, for a moment. You’re the Black Paladin, yes, but look where you come from, given the situation.”

Keith knows: it could make things worse for Shiro, from a purely political perspective. And on the surface, a Galra protecting one of their own? 

It hadn’t been much of a problem, during the war. Keith’s identity had been under wraps, and while some of the hosts were wary around the Blades, they all had a common goal: to bring down the Empire. Now, with the dust settled, it seems people have more time to stew, especially with fears of another dictatorship happening again: with Voltron gone, with the rest of the world rebuilding, with warlords and dissenters still on the loose… 

“Then I’m going to help him, any way I can,” Keith decides. He’s ready to take the nearest ship and go—find evidence, witnesses, _anything_. Scour the universe. Save Shiro. 

Krolia definitely sees it. “Go, then, ” she says, but she doesn’t have to tell him twice.

* * *

Keith strikes out on his own, leaves Acxa in charge of his team for the time being. He then goes to Hunk and his team, to Altea, to every planet they’ve saved and then some. It’s his own Voltron Show, and he’s going to damn make sure everyone’s going to get the right message. 

And, of course, he continues his and Lance’s quest, which seems more important than ever. If anyone could help…

He follows the map, the sightings, the stars. Something’s pulling him, like that unseen presence in the desert so many years ago: a string tugging and winding, his fingers brushing what they could of it. He doesn’t remember much of that year, lost in a blur of grief and anger and bits of starvation and dehydration and possibly delirium, only remembers being _taken_ , as if his body didn’t belong to him. 

His single-mindedness seems to work in his favor, like last time. He pushes himself harder and harder, going farther and farther into the depths of space, where time fluctuates and everything is a yawning void, feeling whatever’s in him growing stronger. He’s going to find it. He’s going to find the cave equivalent, carved with lions and mystical symbols, something he doesn’t know just yet, but will be the key to it all. 

Except, there’s nothing there at all. 

When he stops, there’s only a stretch of total blackness. But he can sense _something_ , like a hidden door in those fantasy books he used to read in all those after-school programs. 

“Please,” he begs out loud. A code. A spell. A right combination of words. “ _Please_.” 

Just then, his datapad lights up. “Keith.” It’s Kolivan. “We need you.”

* * *

“Put down a rebellion,” Keith says slowly. 

“Exactly,” Kolivan says. The rest of the Coalition float behind him, holograms crammed in the tiny room of his ship. “A special team is needed, and as the face of Voltron and since you visited the planet itself recently…” 

“But for what?” Keith asks. “Everything was calm when we were there.” 

“That may be so,” another Coalition member says, “but since your...visit, there have been protests. Against the Coalition, against Daibazaal, it doesn’t matter; it’s absolute chaos. Their goal is to establish an independent planet, free of outside influences.” 

_So?_ Keith thinks, but begins, “I don’t see how this requires the Blades—” 

“It is admirable to be sympathetic, given your shared heritage—” 

“This has nothing to do with me,” Keith interrupts. “I saw a reason to go in when a planet was full-on intent on re-establishing the Empire, but this situation is unusual.” He wonders if Acxa tried to explain. She probably did, but he suspects they didn’t listen to her. Fine—like it or not, he has the clout. 

Keith opens his mouth, but is cut off again. 

“They are either with the Coalition, or not,” someone says sharply. “There are still fragments loyal to the former Empire, as you know, Paladin. If we allow them to rise, they’ll grow stronger. And since it’s still, on paper, a Galra-occupied planet...” 

“But if we just put them down,” Keith tries, “wouldn’t it start another war?” 

A few others look as if they agree with him, but don’t say anything. “The Coalition is divided on this matter,” Ryner says diplomatically, “and with the matter back on Earth, the Coalition feels that it must deliver a message, of sorts.” 

_Shiro._

“A message,” Keith echoes. In his head, he sees the newscast of Kerberos, _PILOT ERROR_ emblazoned on every screen, Commander Hira, _there are no good Galra,_ the faces of the kids back on that planet. “With or against us, is that what you said? Is that your official justification, or would you prefer something more poetic: _expanding the prosperity of the universe_? Victory or death?” 

A rumble of anger goes through the Coalition; his mother looks shocked but, Keith senses, a bit proud, too. 

“Remember your loyalty to the Galactic Coalition,” someone warns. 

He grits his teeth. Too Galra. Not Galra enough. He and Shiro talked about this kind of thing, Shiro being shunned for not being able to speak Japanese, and in the same token, mocked for his bento boxes at school. Keith had been in the system long enough to recognize a pattern of coincidences, as well as the open jeers on the playground. He didn’t even know much of his culture, though he remembers his dad setting out Korean food and burgers side-by-side on holidays, and one lullaby and an occasional story, the frog and the scorpion.

But there was nothing to be ashamed of back then—just some assholes who couldn’t get with the program, even years after the third world war. It was one thing, though, being part of an empire that dominated the known universe. 

“ _My loyalty_?” he spits. “I’m first a Paladin of Voltron. It’s not right for a planet to occupy another as a territory, and you’re right, it should be dissolved. But you can’t kick either of them off their planet. Both consider it their home, and most have built a life there, as long as the empire.” Keith takes a breath. “Please. Let’s try diplomacy. Work out a situation together. There doesn’t have to be a war, or the beginnings of it, especially so soon after we finished one.” 

There’s a long, almost too painful, pause before someone clears their throat and asks, “Will you be the emissary, with new terms?” 

“No,” Keith says. They know where Acxa is; he knows she’ll take it. “For now, I’m going to try to help the universe from tearing itself apart, and to do that, I’m going to protect the person I love.”

* * *

“A compromise,” Keith wearily explains. “The Galra back to Daibazaal. Everyone else...to their original planets. Reintroducing the original culture on both sides, which sounds good on paper, but...” 

Onscreen, Lance winces. “I’ll say. What about those who don’t want to go to either? Or who don’t feel like they belong in their original homeland?” 

Keith sighs. “Acxa tried to explain that. The Coalition suggested finding...a new place. What do you think? Altea?” 

Lance shakes his head. “Coran would say yes, but some of the Alteans—they want a separate homeland for them, after everything. Or if they were going to share—not with the Galra.”

It’s understandable, but still stings. “Then what are we supposed to do?”

“Another planet? Somewhere uninhabited?” Lance shrugs. “Earth? It’s sort of coming together there, but I’m guessing they want to be left alone completely. So, back to the empty planet thing?” 

“I was hoping you had new ideas,” Keith says, but not unkindly. He sighs again. “No one’s going to like this.” 

“They might listen to you if you weren’t just a Blade.” Lance raises his hands at Keith’s scowl. “Not that it’s a bad thing. But you’re not a representative, like Shiro...was. Or a leader of an organization or—” 

“Are you going to give me the leadership talk, too?” Keith scoffs. “Yeah. Ask the twenty-year-old with no governing experience to lead an entire planet. That’ll work out perfectly.” 

“Hey, you led that one team that kind of saved the universe. Several times.” 

“Not the same.” 

“I think Shiro would agree with me.” 

“He’s always thought too highly of me,” Keith says dryly. 

“True,” Lance muses. “But _still_.” 

“Lance,” Keith says, “even if...you weren’t alone, would you want to rule Altea right now? Like Coran’s doing?” 

Lance thinks for a moment. “No,” he admits. 

“Exactly,” Keith says. “We learned, but we still—we still needed experience and alliances and outside help. If we were more prepared, maybe this could have ended sooner.” 

“Maybe,” Lance muses, “but who knows? The Blade was trying for centuries. So were the rebels. The universe needed Voltron.” 

“And we didn’t have a choice. We were thrown into this crazy world with the roles drawn out for us; we were the only ones out there. It’s not like now, where we have some foundations, options.” Keith takes a deep breath. “It was hard, don’t you think?” 

Lance nods slowly. “This whole...Shiro thing going on,” he says slowly. “It’s making me think: we put a lot of pressure on him. He was catapulted into this as much as we were, and right out of that arena.” 

“Yeah. We did, didn’t we?”

“I don’t think you did, as much as us,” Lance says. “We just hero-worshipped him; I guess we still do, a little. You two actually knew each other.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says softly. He’d known, but only what Shiro even then allowed him to see. 

Keith feels guilt pool at the bottom of his stomach. He’d been so consumed, back then, with the joy of having Shiro alive, both times, depended on his presence like air, using Shiro as a leaning post more than the other way around. 

“Hey,” Lance breaks in, “I see you thinking, and quit it. It took you two a ridiculously long time to realize it was more than some comrade-ship or teammate incestual thing or whatever.” He grins, giving Keith a second to laugh. “Look. The war was shitty and we’re still dealing with it, one way or another. Maybe there’s more talking to do, but that’s how it goes. And not to be a downer, or make this all about me, but you _have_ him, Keith. And if I know you, you’re not going to stop.” 

Keith stares. “When did you start giving pep talks?” 

“Since I had time to think about them,” Lance dryly says. “You’re not the only one.” 

An idea is taking root. “If you don’t mind, Lance,” Keith says, as calmly as he can muster. “I’m going to hang up. I have one last thing I need to do before going back to Earth.”


	3. Part Three: Shiro

**CHAPTER ONE**

The night before, Shiro waits. For all intents and purposes, he’s a prisoner, though his room doesn’t have bars. 

It’s still a cell. 

The room’s still a cell: stark-white walls, a single bed with a few inches of mattress, and an ever-present camera in the corner. The room itself is devoid of any personal items, or tools to be used to escape, one way or another. Some would like that, he thinks, and he can’t say that he hasn’t thought about it. But that’s the coward’s way, and he’s never ran before.

He understands, of course, they’re worried about him fleeing or killing himself. But it doesn’t make it easier; it reminds him, despite the bright lighting and white walls, of Zarkon’s prison. 

Finally, the door opens. They don’t need to say his name; he’s the only one here. It’s when he'll walk into the room, underneath the accusatory gazes, ready to tear him apart, when they’ll say his name like a battle cry. The gavel will fall and announce his sentence. 

Shiro raises his head, and steps forward.

* * *

He’s not in a prison jumpsuit or a Garrison uniform. Instead, Shiro’s in a suit, the same kind he wore for his dad’s funeral: somber black with a slip of a tie. The ankle monitor is still around his ankle, though, along the tracker embedded into his left arm. At the very least, they haven’t cuffed him. 

Still, every camera’s trained on him, witnesses and press and those who could shove in at the right moment crammed into every row. Shiro tries not to look anyone in the eye, but finds his gaze landing on someone, anyone. What is he hoping for? A sympathetic look? An angry shout? 

In front of him are the representatives of the Coalition. He tries not to let it hurt him, the way Earth’s seat is still empty. 

Ryner begins the roll call, the description of events leading to the trial, confirming that everyone is present and that there will be a written, as well as a video-taped, record. _She’ll be on your side,_ Pidge told him. _She knows you._ But it’s a vote, he knows; it doesn’t matter whether she’s apparently the chosen leader to speak, or if she’s the only judge to stand for him. 

Finally, his name is called, and numbly, Shiro moves forward to the stand, microphone hanging in front of his face. Immediately, the bright lights wash him in a single spotlight, the beginnings of sweat prickling at his forehead and down his back. He wonders how he looks, if he resembles a deer in the headlights. 

“Former General Takashi Shirogane, citizen of the planet Earth of System X-9-Y, you stand accused of multiple charges of intergalactical war crimes. Have you received and had an opportunity to read the indictment filed against you?” 

“Yes,” Shiro says simply. 

“How do you respond?” 

_Guilty_. 

He can see the Holts in the audience. Lance. Hunk. And, surprisingly, supporters near the designated podium, flanking the aisles, some with signs, according to the morning news he’d skimmed on his datapad, fully aware of being monitored: Shay, some Olkari, other people from planets Voltron’s helped, even Slav. 

And Keith, standing in front of them all, eyes boring into Shiro’s. It’s a message, clear as day: _Don’t give up._

“Guilty,” Shiro says, closing his eyes. 

Just to give these people some peace, not having to be dragged through weeks, even months, of reliving agony and pain. And he is: videos and transcripts and his own memories prove this right. To say he isn’t is an insult to the dead. 

There’s no approval or disapproval on any face he sees. 

“The tribunal will then proceed.”

* * *

The package Hunk brought Shiro was currently being scanned by security: a rectangle of purple rice and mixed roots, sticky finger-length ribs, tiny cakes swirled in ribbons of blue and pink, spicy-smelling golden buns, a pudding cup of food goo from Altea. 

“They’re not dangerous,” Hunk said, “unless they were made by Rolo.” 

In spite of the situation, Shiro smiled. He’d joke about weapons being baked into one of those cakes, but sensed that it wouldn’t be the best time, considering he was on the other side of the glass with cameras pointed at his head. 

“Thank you, Hunk,” Shiro said. “You didn’t have to come all this way.” 

“Yes, I did,” Hunk replied. “We should have been here sooner, didn’t realize it was getting this bad.” He shook his head. “But I’m here, and so is Pidge. Lance is coming tomorrow, and Keith...you’ll have all the paladins behind you. Except…” Hunk leaned forward, voice in a confessional whisper: “I wish Allura were here.”

The mention of Allura still sunk deep into his bones. _You never have to thank me for anything._

How could it be? How could she have sacrificed so much, given away pieces of herself, lost her home and parents, and still have lost everything? What was the point?

 _His selflessness_.

He wishes he could do that sometimes. Be gone. Disappear. Give up, for a noble cause.

She had accepted her death too easily, too nobly. But he could understand that; they had been the leaders of Voltron—shoulders straight, voice raised, encouraging words at ready, yet so tiring, to be the pillar for others.

Nothing could have stopped her, he knew. He would have done the same, if he could. He wished he did.

The lions are gone, even though they haven’t been his, not for a long time. Keith’s across the universe. And...

“It was going to happen,” Shiro said. “Even if Allura was here.”

* * *

Too soon, the opening statements begin. Shiro hangs his head, rooted in place, hands in front of him as if they were bound. 

“We are gathered here to pursue multiple charges of war crimes against civilians from several planets and quadrants, most of whom are missing or confirmed dead…”

“...Subject is nothing new, but it is profoundly shocking that a former leader of Voltron, the Black Paladin before Paladin Keith Kogane, would have been an active participant in such horrors.” 

“...Kidnapped from a standard Galaxy Garrison exploration mission, where he and the other passengers had no knowledge of the Galra Empire or any life beyond its galaxy…” 

“...Nicknamed ‘the Champion’ by both the Galra audience and prisoners, for his quote, ‘formidable skill’ in the ring...served as little more than the Empire’s executioner of innocent civilians…” 

“...Consistently experimented on, against his will...tortured and not knowing whether he would return home again…” 

He tastes blood in his mouth. Sand underneath his fingernails. They’ll play the footage soon, he knows, and everyone will be forced to relive what he’s done to their families. He has no right to request otherwise, or step out of the room. 

The spotlight falls heavily across his forehead.

* * *

He’s sure the guards talk about him; it’s easy enough to see him in this aquarium-like cell. Reading his datapad, with security blocks and surveillance. Pushing forkfuls of Garrison cafeteria food into his mouth. Combing his hair and trying to straighten his clothes for the occasional visitor. 

There are no secret messages or whispered condolences, nor disgusted glances or spitting on the clear glass that divides him from the rest. He recognizes a few familiar faces, including a former crew member from IGF Atlas. He’d cheered for Shiro during that arm wrestling tournament, he recalled. Stayed for the whole thing. 

What must he think of Shiro now? Does he resent Shiro for Atlas being grounded? Did he breathe a sigh of relief? Make excuses to his friends about his association with Shiro? Debunk theories and gossip flying around the Garrison? Sit there quietly, taking it in? 

Shiro wonders what his post is now. If he got transferred into administration or teaching or piloting another warship. Did he miss Atlas? (Did Shiro? He isn’t sure. He misses being able to travel among the stars, help people, feel like the world was going to be all right with him at the helm. But he’d felt like a commander on that ship, not a partner, working in tandem. Shiro never told Keith this; he knew Keith would feel unnecessarily guilty, and they didn’t need that between them.)

His former crew member clocks out, sometimes with a backward glance at Shiro. 

The difference, of course, was that he got to leave, Shiro thought once, without blood on his hands. Not everyone was so lucky.

* * *

The facts are presented, footage played. They ask him questions: where he was born, how old he was at the time of the mission, whether anyone objected to sending him, how long was he held, what the Galra arena was, what his place was in it, how and when he knew he was supposed to fight. What did you do? Who did you know? How did you kill? 

“With a sword they gave me,” he answers. “A variety of different weapons, afterwards. A club. A spear. Something like an axe. Then, my arm.” 

Shiro describes the specs: the super-human strength and purple glow, cutting through metal like a hot knife through butter; the storage of information plugged into the complex wiring; even the way it seemed to hum when he was alone with nothing but his thoughts. 

It worked to bypass Galra-made tech, he adds, and a restless murmur runs through the room. 

Shiro then names everyone he can remember: the prisoners, the gladiators, the guards. He wishes he could remember more. 

The whole time, Shiro presses his nails into his palms. He’s seen trials like these, with representatives volleying back and forth, even read some of the transcripts from the ones Keith had a hand in bringing in those accused. Keith told him over and over again to stop; he himself preferred to drop them off and leave, only giving written statements if they tried to escape or confessed something. 

He wonders who will read this one. What history will do: condemn or pity? 

_How was the arena?_ They ask. _What did it feel like?_

He licks his dry lips. The heat of the spotlights. The dryness of the sand. The puddles of blood, how it soaked into the floor like a sponge. The faces that never leave him. The breaths that fade into a cheering crowd. The animalistic adrenaline filling every corner of his mind. Shapeless thoughts and cut-off words. How everything seeped into his bones and burned like flickering, surviving coals. 

_And what did you do?_

“I killed them,” he says. “As fast as I could.” 

* * *

The first time Shiro had touched Keith, he’d admitted, “I’m glad it’s with this hand. Not...the other one.” 

Keith traced the ridges, the blue light flickering across his face like candlelight. He lifted up Shiro’s hand, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. “You know I’d react the same if it wasn’t.” 

“It was a weapon,” Shiro said, watching as Keith entwined his fingers with his. He couldn’t help the flare of a hint of possessiveness and awe when he noticed that his hand swallowed Keith’s completely. Keith, thanks to the quantum abyss two-year gap, had shot up to nearly Shiro’s chin, but his hands were still dwarfed by Shiro’s. 

“It was yours,” Keith said firmly. “A part of you.” Another kiss, this time, to the inside curve of his wrist. “Do you think I can pick and choose? It’s all of you, or nothing. And trust me, it’s all of you.”

* * *

“Please state your name for the record.” 

“Senior Blade Keith Kogane, Black Paladin of Voltron,” Keith says, likely well aware he doesn’t have to state his title. He dressed to intimidate, Shiro observes, hair braided and in his Senior Blade robes. There are no weapons allowed in the room, but he’s sure Keith could have carried in his bayard or blade openly if it were allowed, just to drive the point home. 

“Could you explain how you met Mr. Shirogane?” 

Keith’s hands are folded on the stand, voice determined as he paints a picture of a bored kid sitting beside a window as a guest speaker from the Galaxy Garrison was introduced, the same officer who saw that he was excluded from the simulator exercise and gave him a shot. Keith also candidly adds the fact he stole Shiro’s (technically, the Garrison’s) car, for which he sees quick, amused glances, despite the circumstances, particularly on Lance’s face. Iverson, he notices, is shooting Keith narrowed eyes; Shiro had forgotten he’d neglected to mention that incident to the officials and recruiting board, even to Adam. 

So far, Keith’s painting a rosy picture, not totally unexpected, detailing his experience at the Garrison, confirming that Shiro was his mentor, and moving through a series of impressive points about Shiro during his tenure as the Black Paladin before being cut off. 

“Paladin Kogane,” someone says, “how would you describe your relationship with Shirogane?” 

Shiro tries not to react. This would happen, of course, trying to prove that any positive testimony about him was overly biased. Still, though, he didn’t know it would come this early. 

“Are you referring to now or prior?” Keith asks calmly, but Shiro can see the _try me_ hidden in each word. 

“Now,” the representative says, equally calmly. 

They haven’t confirmed their own relationship, Shiro thinks, somewhat hysterically. They never seemed to need to. And what a time to start! 

Keith clears his throat, a telltale nervousness in his hands. “We’re partners.” 

“Partners.” The questioner blinks, then decides to work backwards: “You mentioned he was your mentor when you were both in the Galaxy Garrison. What rank were you?” 

Keith obviously doesn’t like how this is going. “Cadet.” 

“And what rank was he?” 

“Ensign. I think.”

“And when he was assigned for the Kerberos mission?” 

Keith’s hands tighten on the podium. “Lieutenant.” 

“And how old were you when you first enrolled?” 

Keith’s chin juts out. “Fifteen.” 

“Then when he left?” 

“Seventeen.” 

“Seventeen.” There’s a long pause. “Shirogane was twenty-five at the time, as well as an officer of the Galaxy Garrison.” 

_Oh god,_ Shiro thinks. The gallery erupts in hushed whispers.

This time, Keith bristles. “It was different from our relationship today. Shiro was my mentor, nothing more.” 

“Nothing more, except special treatment.” A pencil tap. “There are records of Shirogane singling you out for non-sanctioned Galaxy Garrison outings and privileges. Hoverbike rides, for instance. He gave you his old one following Kerberos, did he not?” 

_Stay calm,_ Shiro wills, at the same time wishing Keith could leave the stand. He didn’t deserve having this all dragged out of him. 

Keith takes a deep breath. “Yes.” 

“He had money, too, and ordered it to be turned over to you in his will.” 

“I never took it,” Keith snaps. “It was blood money.” He’s not looking at Shiro now. “I lived in the desert, away from the Garrison, in my dad’s old shack by my own means. I took the hoverbike, yes. But I never accepted _money_.” 

Shiro wants to take Keith’s hand. _Don’t,_ he wants to say, _they’re going to push you._

“Do you think your relationship, both past and current, colors your perception of Shirogane?” 

“No,” Keith says, a hint of wariness in his eyes. “We never allowed our relationship, no matter how good or bad it was, affect the mission or the team.” 

“On the contrary: compromising Blade missions for him,” someone else says, flipping through notes. Shiro shoots Keith a look; Keith’s turned away, fists clenched as he looks in Kolivan’s direction. “Abandoning your post to search for him after the first battle with Zarkon, then your team while pursuing former Prince Lotor. Before all of this: getting expelled from the Galaxy Garrison for attacking a superior officer in his name.”

The words hang in the air. 

“That’s a lie,” Keith fiercely says. “The Garrison covered up Kerberos; ask anyone, ask the Holts, ask the _Green Paladin_ . I didn’t just randomly attack someone without provocation. And,” he continues, “I was seventeen. And I thought my best friend, and at the time, my _only_ friend, had died and his name was being dragged through the mud so the Garrison could cover up the fact that aliens were real.” Keith stares the entire room down; Shiro’s not sure whether to be worried or proud. “This whole thing sounds similar, doesn’t it?” 

Silence. 

“No further questions.”

* * *

Next comes the rest of his defence: Pidge, then Lance, then Hunk, then others. Then, victims’ families sprinkled in between. For and against, for and against, for and against, a drumbeat of guilt and redemption. Shiro’s character is judged by moments where he was at his lowest or wasn’t sure of what he was doing or even flat-out didn’t remember. And they all add up: war hero, war criminal, defender of the universe, tool of the Galra, savior, executioner. 

It’s with the last witness that Shiro feels the full weight of the day’s shock and horror crashing down on his shoulders. 

Gray-blue, three pairs of still-skinny arms, a rounded stalk on the top of his head, no longer in the prison rags. Xi. 

In the audience, Keith stares straight ahead. This must have been what he brought back. What he never told Shiro, knowing he’d beg to not include him.

Xi tells of how Shiro and Pidge liberated them from a prison in Central Command, before everyone even got their lions. He describes Shiro’s lack of memory with the incident with Matt and Myzak, then his years in the arena. Everyone’s hanging onto every word, piling up like bodies.

He speaks mechanically, as if all of this happened to a stranger he’d met a long time ago, and his tone is perfectly matter-of-fact, not like every word being strung out of him is being taken from him.

Yet, it brings back more and more memories. The pleasure of being alive, blood pumping with applause and adrenaline and aching muscles; the howl of survival and the wail of an imminent collapse; the largeness of the world, of it going on despite everything; the best and the worst of the human race; what should have happened and what might come next and what would happen if you were a step too slow; the pain biting into every cell and never letting go; the complete and utter lack of clarity except this: you are alive, and you are a survivor. 

There are more questions, but not about this. There’s simply the stark reality, the chain of events, the result of what’s coordinated by flashes and buried ghosts and occasional doubt. 

And of course, the why. 

“If that meant for a chance to see my family again, I would have done the same. If I were to be the Champion to do so, I would do so again.” Xi looks up, and there’s a weariness to his eyes that Shiro recognizes more than his own family. More than Keith. “If you were not in the arena, you couldn’t have known.”

* * *

Lastly: “How did you feel about all of this?” 

Shiro searches. “Horrified. Out of my control. But I hated myself, for being a part of it.” 

“Then why did you do it?” 

He closes his eyes. It boils down to something simple, almost deceptively so: “I didn’t want to die.” 

Shiro opens his eyes again. He can see the endless lines of glass cells, the circular saw poised above his arm, the first face of the one he killed and the last. “I tried to escape, multiple times. When Ulaz of the Blade of Marmora gave me an opportunity to escape, I took it. I wanted to alert my home about the Empire, but I also wanted to find Sam and Matt, then let people back home know that I didn’t abandon them.” Shiro clears his throat. He can see Sam, holding his Colleen’s hand. Pidge and Matt, clinging together, almost identical in their haircuts and Garrison uniforms. Keith. “But I stopped, because they would have killed me. Or killed my friends. Without anyone knowing what happened to them.” 

There seems to be more he should say, but the rest is a river run dry. He wonders if it’s enough. 

They still take him away. 

* * *

Keith appears like a ghost, pale and lithe and mouth pressed in a worried frown. “Shiro,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” 

“No,” Shiro says softly, “don’t be.” 

“But I owe you an explanation,” Keith insists, and begins his tale. 

Shiro takes it all in, but the one thing that sticks most in his mind is _Allura_. It can’t be. It’s not possible. They all saw her walk into the light with Honerva. Her lion, floating unresponsively in space. 

“How?” he asks. 

Keith shifts in place. “It’s…hard to explain. But the marks Allura placed on him—he senses she’s still out there. And with my quintessence-sensing abilities, the places where people saw the lions…”

“So, there’s no direct proof,” Shiro interrupts, disappointment settling like a bitter seed. “Allura isn’t...” Shiro begins, but he can’t say it, even after all this time. 

He decides to change tactics: “I’d love Allura back, but…this isn’t healthy for Lance. Or you.” 

Keith gives him a look. “And wallowing is?”

“Throwing yourself into dangerous field missions, into wild goose chases is not the answer.” 

“Funny,” Keith says sharply, “I’d thought you’d understand.” Then, in the next breath, “I didn’t mean it.” 

“No,” Shiro says, “you were only being honest. That’s one of the reasons I…” Suddenly unable to speak, Shiro rests his palm against the glass. 

Keith lifts his hand, presses it over Shiro’s palm. “I know,” he croaks. “But Shiro…”

“Sh. You’re here now,” Shiro says. “You always were.”

* * *

That night, he dreams of himself. He’s standing in the middle of the arena, face raised to the crowd’s cheers. He has golden eyes and teeth bared into fangs and prison rags hanging from his form. His right hand is gleaming with deadly electricity. He’s ready for the kill.

* * *

When Shiro wakes up, he’s hungry. 

He and Matt and Adam have joked about it at Garrison, about last meals. Matt wanted an all-you-could-eat buffet at the restaurant Sam had taken him to when accepted into the Garrison. Shiro doesn’t get a request, though, and he takes it as a sign. Maybe there’s hope. They wouldn’t kill him, would they? They would give him a warning, at least.

Or it’s a fluke. It reminds him of focusing his eyes on Keith’s shocked face as Pidge and the castle made their way down to the geyser planet, as the world began to fade away. Violet in the glow of the portal, easily rivaling the stark grayness of the rocks. The last, he determined even then, he’d ever see.

This time, Keith’s sprawled on the other side of the glass, palm slid to have only the tips of his fingers touch the surface, hair splayed across his face. His eyes are closed, but that’s okay. They had some happiness together. Keith would learn to move on from him. Those three times were trial runs, preparation for the real thing. 

Shiro replaces his fingers on the glass, wishing for flesh and bone and warmth, but this is as good as he’s going to get.

* * *

It’s almost time, they say, and Keith has to be practically dragged out, calling his name. 

Shiro watches him go. Closes his eyes. Asks for pen and paper. Writes under watchful eyes. Waits.

* * *

The judgment comes down that day.

Dishonorably discharged from the Galaxy Garrison. Stripped of all his wartime promotions and honors and titles. Banned from serving in any capacity of the Galaxy Garrison or the Galactic Coalition, forever. Reparations for the victims’ families. Unable to leave Earth without express consent from a higher authority, and under strict guard. 

It’s fair. It’s only fair. Even merciful. He had expected a firing squad—or the universe-equivalent. Perhaps pushed out of the airlock, imprisonment for life, even. But this...

In the sentencing room, there are no cheers, and small wonder. There are no winners in this. There never were.

**CHAPTER TWO**

But it’s not over. 

Everyone’s sitting down at the Holt’s kitchen table, utensils in hand but not eating.

Iverson finally speaks: “They want you.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, understanding immediately.

“What?” Lance demands. He still hasn’t left for Altea, to Shiro’s surprise. 

“They want Earth to turn me over to them,” Shiro says. “For trials on their planet. Or retribution.” 

He knows very little about the world outside, only that there are protests across the galaxy. More hate mail. More calls for proper punishment, restitutions, executions. Newscasts debating on whether the verdict was truly just—or biased, due to all the interference from the Galaxy Garrison and Voltron. 

He should have known it would have come to this. 

Sam is pale, looking older than Shiro’s ever seen him, even when they were captured by the Galra, even when he was held hostage as Zarkon’s prisoner, even when Earth was under attack. “Your head on a platter.”

“ _No_ ,” Keith says, so fiercely that everyone looks at him. “That’s not happening.”

“It’s understandable,” Shiro says. He holds out his hands. “I deserve their hatred, their pain. Maybe there’s a way I can atone for what I’ve done.”

“With your death?” Keith snaps. “How will that solve anything? You have the potential to do so much good, and you’re just giving up?” He looks at Shiro, shakes his head. “You’ve really changed.”

Failure sinks in his chest. He’s never wanted Keith to look at him like that, and Keith never has. Not even when Shiro had hidden his illness from him, not even when his clone— _he—_ tried to kill him.

He’s surprised it took this long.

Pidge snaps her fingers. “So? We whisk him away. Isn’t the Garrison part of the government? Don’t we have some sort of, I don’t know, witness protection program?”

“We do,” Matt says. “But is it good enough?” 

Iverson frowns. “How will you hide him? And where?” 

“Off-planet,” Keith suggests immediately. “He dyes his hair. His scar will be easy to hide, too, with make-up. Disguise his right arm, or make a new one altogether with Allura’s crystal. Humans are exploring space more, and if that’s not enough, there are humanoid aliens.”

That sets everyone off—a flurry of ideas whirling past him, over his head, with the Holts throwing out ideas for a less conspicuous arm and some clothes rigged with cloaking devices, Iverson and Sam discussing strategies to whisk Shiro off-planet without anyone noticing, Lance putting forward Altea as a safe place.

“No,” Shiro says, and everyone stops talking. “No. This isn’t right, you all risking everything for me. Think of Earth, our role in diplomatic negotiations and intergalactic coalitions. And Lance, Altea is so vulnerable right now—”

“Shiro,” Lance says, the familiar spark of defiance that no one had seen for a long time in his eyes. “Shut up.”

“What Lance means is,” Sam injects gently, “you risked everything for us, for the world. If nothing else, that deserves repayment.”

“And we’re your friends,” Pidge says, hands on her hips. “Your _team.”_

“You wouldn’t let us do something like this,” Lance agrees.

“That’s different,” Shiro says. _I’m not part of your team. I’m not worth this._

Iverson glares. “What Shirogane needs is someone to watch him, so he doesn’t try to do something foolish, like turn himself in.”

“I will,” Keith says, voice clear and eyes dancing with fervor. “That’s an idea—put him in a Blade uniform with the mask; it’s armor, so even if things get bad, Shiro’s protected.”

“I like it,” Pidge interjects. “And he’d be surrounded by one of the most formidable security teams in the galaxy.”

“As do I,” Iverson agrees. 

“I can’t put you in danger,” Shiro protests.

Of course, they do it anyway.

They work fast, Iverson and the Garrison fielding public comments and media requests while Pidge and Keith and the others get to work.

If Shiro wasn’t allowed to leave the Garrison before, this takes it up to new levels. This time, he’s not allowed to leave his room. Instead of a lockdown, this is a quarantine. It’s all for his safety.

In the meantime, he browses his datapad. Paces his room. Obediently eats everything given to him.

There’s a countdown, he knows, and the Garrison can’t officially help him. Keith and Lance and Pidge had seethed, but it makes sense — to protect them all. 

His disguise comes in pieces, hidden with trays of food or changes of clothes. Shiro remembers old films that he and Adam and Matt used to watch, squished on the tiny Garrison couch in the common room, about smuggling—disassembled weapons baked into pastries, notes of hope and daring and escape slipped under teacups. It had been funny, back then. Now… 

Shiro colors his hair dark black, like it was before all of this, then his eyebrows. Concealer covers the scar across his face. Moldings re-shape his cheekbones and jawline, sharpened by stress and hunger. A heavy coat and a flesh-colored glove covers his right arm. Pidge’s cloaking is supposed to warp everything, but the physical touches are backups, a Russian doll type of plan.

He looks in the mirror. Time has not been kind to him, even with the disguise. His eyes are weary, dark shadows underneath them. There are permanent worry lines around his eyes, even at age thirty.

But still, he looks very different.

He wishes it was this easy to change. 

**CHAPTER THREE**

It’s like when he came back the second time, though not as himself—mostly laying in bed and pacing his room. This time, though, he doesn't have the excuse of nearly starving to death in the depths of space or a hurt leg. 

But like before, Keith’s devotion is a steady candle in the darkness. He brings Shiro meals, sets him up with a change of clothes, climbs into bed beside him. Unlike before, they’re sure of each other, and not afraid to lose each other with a fumbled hand or a slip of a confession. They’ve been through too much for something so small to come between them. 

And Keith has been by his side this entire time, including sneaking him away in the dead of night onto the prepared ship — this time, without crowds and cameras and cheering. They’re older, now, and more damaged. 

_I’m never going home,_ he thinks. _If Earth even was my home._

* * *

“You’re not doing any good standing around,” Keith says one day.

Shiro admits Keith has a good point; he’s always thrived in keeping busy, and as wonderful as it was to spend 24/7 in close quarters with Keith, there’s been virtually nothing to do. It’s too easy to wander around and be in his own head, and more than once, he’d slept whole days away.

“I can’t exactly join you outside,” he says. A mission, he knows, is out of the equation altogether, no matter how much he wants to actually _do_ something. 

Keith raises his chin. “Then fight me. Hand-to-hand, like the old days.”

The old days. He remembers the Garrison training room, with its cushioned mats on the floor and boxing bags swinging from the ceiling, demonstrating how to wrap tape around his hands. _You need to channel your energy into something focused,_ he’d told Keith, and Keith had smirked: _Like a punch?_

In the Castle’s sparring room, the whole team was involved in simulations and drones and mazes, but never one-on-one. Normally, he’d go up against any of the training bots, practicing with his Galra arm and various Altean weaponry the Castle had to offer—but never against any of the paladins, never letting them know that he had the potential to be dangerous.

Now, with his new arm that isn’t an instant kill switch… “You’re on,” he says.

* * *

Shiro takes Keith in, standing tall in his sweats and a t-shirt. His hair’s pulled back, and for the first time, Shiro eyes it as an opponent, not a lover. That, and the fact that he knows Keith’s style, his openings, his weaknesses…

But he’s underestimated Keith before it’s begun: as always Keith springs forward, but this time, it’s graceful and concentrated, not a frenzied lunge. He easily slides around Shiro, using his speed to drive quick, forceful blows, and Shiro’s conscious about his lessened time in the field, especially in recent years, and it’s showing in this fight. 

Several times, Keith catches him off-guard, Shiro a step too slow and mind spending a split second too much time thinking before reacting, and almost every breath comes out as a heave, sweat running freely down his back and face. 

The last time had been a deadly battle that’s faded into the back of his memory; Haggar had flicked him on, and he’d been nothing more than a mindless killing machine. It disturbed him, haunted his every dream so much that he’d moved into Pidge’s lion in hopes being away from Keith’s presence would lessen them. Every battle since then had been about survival and rage and desperation, then behind the controls of a hulking ship. 

This is different: friendly, if brutal. There’s no stakes, no consequences, nothing to lose if he fails, and he’s not used to this, holding back and worrying about holding back and getting too in his head and—

Keith now slams him against the floor, Shiro’s head bouncing a little from the mat on the floor; for a long time, he simply lays there, stunned and stupid. 

“You win,” Shiro says, aware of Keith’s weight pressing against his chest, knees digging into his collarbone. 

Keith offers his hand to him, and Shiro, after a long pause, takes it, allowing Keith to pull him to his feet.

“Again,” he says.

* * *

It comes a routine, and little by little, Shiro becomes more active. He’s invited to sit at telecom meetings to strategize with the Blades, something he attributes to Keith’s doing, is able to contribute and reuse his strategic and diplomatic skills. 

The Blade’s growth is becoming more stagnant, and they’re still thinking of ways to revive their numbers. Kolivan is rarely there anymore, stuck on Daibazaal, and Shiro begins to notice most of the Blade members look to Keith for decisions. 

“Will you become the leader of the Blades, after Kolivan?” Shiro asks after one telecom meeting. 

Keith shrugs, which is a positive reaction compared to his vehement denials to other offers. “I don’t know,” he says. “It took me a while, but it’s nice being part of the Blades. Having a team again. But...it’s different after the war. More diplomacy; that’s your thing.” 

“You don’t do too badly,” Shiro says, “considering my position right now.” 

Keith gives him a look. “It’s just that no one is used to seeing the Galra as peacekeepers. We bear the sins of our planet,” he says, sounding like he’s quoting someone. “And we failed to know a threat.”

Shiro remembers Ulaz: _We thought expanding the Galra Empire would bring stability. We learned too late: a tyrant doesn’t seek stability, only power._

And: _we have people risking their lives in this war, just like you._

“Still,” Shiro says, “things change. You’re doing a lot of recovery efforts already, stepping in when the Coalition won’t. And who’s a better face for the Blades than you? Paladin of Voltron, you know the history and traditions but are open to change, a fighter and strategist…”

“Funny,” Keith says, “sounds like someone I know.”

It takes a second for Shiro to get it. “Me? But I’m not Galra.” His datapad beeps; it’s time for their sparring session. He lightly kisses Keith’s cheek. “Still. It was a nice thought.”

* * *

Every day is hard, but it gets a little less harder.

Shiro hasn’t asked Keith where their ship has been drifting to, but he suspects the destination. It reminds him of long ago when the paladins were fixing the Omega Shield, when Lotor and Haggar were searching for Oriande. He still remembers the lion lunging at him, jaws open wide, power mixed in with fear…

But that was when Haggar was in his head, and that’s impossible now. Isn’t it? Oriande is gone, and so is she...

 _Shiro,_ something calls, _Shiro..._

“Shiro?” 

He knows that voice, but still turns around. 

She looks exactly like the last time they ever saw her, hair bound and body clad in paladin armor. This time, though, there seems to be a trace of silvery light in her eyes, Altean marks flickering like steady flames. But her presence isn’t a faint whisper or a scream in the night; it’s like she never left in the first place. 

“Allura?” he breathes. 

“Shiro,” she repeats. “I’m not sure Keith understood, and he got called away before he could.” She smiles at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Shiro says. “But what do you mean, Keith not understanding?” 

“Keith, Hunk, Pidge, everyone,” she says. “You all dream of me. Especially Lance, every night.” Her smile becomes sadder. 

“We all miss you.” He steps forward, reaching his hand forward. “Allura, where…” 

“I miss you.” Her voice is barely a whisper now, but her fingers just skim the palm of his hand before beginning to fade away. “ _All_ of you.” 

“Allura,” he begins, but wakes up, tears running down his face. 

Beside him, Keith stirs. “Shiro.” 

Shiro winces. “Sorry.” 

“No. Shiro, please, talk to me.” 

“I just…” Shiro shakes his head. “I just...why am I here? How am I still alive? When…” 

Keith turns to face him, and lightly strokes Shiro’s bare shoulder. “Stop. You’re the same man who gave me a chance after I stole your car; who never gave up on me, no matter how much I or the world tried to sabotage; who cleaned my wounds after the trials and was the first to tell me it wasn’t my blood that mattered. And I’ll do you one better: you helped take down a ten-thousand year-old dictatorship and started just minutes after escaping a gladiator-style prison. A prisoner-turned-leader, Shiro, in a war that wasn’t your own.” 

He reaches up and touches Shiro’s cheek. “You built a team of inexperienced cadets who were—let’s face it—not at the top of their classes, and you supported them in ways anyone else wouldn’t: Lance’s confidence, Pidge’s search for her family, Hunk’s worries, Allura’s self-doubts, even Coran’s shenanigans. You’re kind, loyal, and compassionate.

“And most of all...you’re a survivor.” 

Shiro watches Keith’s fingers lightly skim the surface of his skin, tracing seemingly random patterns. “We all should have survived.” 

“I know,” Keith says softly. “Do you dream about her?” 

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers, “just now, too. Keith, it’s not fair. I’m not, I shouldn’t…I should have taken her place. She didn’t have so much blood on her hands.” 

Keith shakes his head. “All those cruisers? All of those ships? Maybe we did it for good reasons. But some of those soldiers, they didn’t want to, or were brainwashed, or were trying to survive the day.” Keith slides a hand up and down Shiro’s arm, finally resting on his shoulder again. “We all killed. All of us. I have blood on my hands, Shiro, same as you. And I killed for you, did you forget? I killed Sendak, sliced him down the middle, and defending Earth didn’t come to mind in that moment—it was avenging what happened to you, what they made you do, how you suffered.” He breathes heavily. “I would do it again. Make no mistake about it. But I’m not innocent, Shiro. No one is.”

“Fine,” Shiro says. His throat’s gotten tight, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “But you’re not a failure.” 

Keith sits up. “What are you talking about?”

Shiro shrugs, too casually. “I couldn’t cut it as the Black Paladin. Couldn’t finish Zarkon or Lotor or even Sendak. Died twice. Let a clone take over. Failed to keep the peace. What’s next on my resume?” 

“None of those were your fault,” Keith says. “And ‘failed to keep the peace’? Where did you get that idea?” 

“I wasn’t a good ambassador. I failed to keep tensions from boiling over…”

“If you’re going to blame yourself for everything, we’re going to be here forever, and we don’t have that,” Keith says firmly. “It wasn’t you. It’s not on you.” He touches Shiro’s face, looking determined. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

* * *

They cover the entire wall, in various scribbles of handwriting, some typed, and judging by the grammar, all translated in English. They’re Post-It notes, pages ripped out of books, clippings of newspapers, stark white paper. “Why are they here?” Shiro asks. 

“For one, evidence,” Keith says. “Pidge and the Blades are working together to establish a database in case someone threatens us. Just so we have an upper hand.”

Shiro remembers Pidge programming a failsafe for his Galra hand. It sounds like her—and the Blades.

“And second, if they’re hidden, the more I start to think about them. Fear them. Not being able to say their name.” Keith shakes his head. “And they’re not worth it.”

Shiro traces them, ridges of paper brushing against his fingertips. “So many want to hurt you,” he whispers. They’re not just from people who long for the old days of Zarkon’s reign; they’re from those who would be considered their allies. Some mock his half-Galra heritage, others his human blood. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes.” Keith admits softly. “But not for me—not really. For how long this is going to take. We had no idea when we were out there. It was just defeating Zarkon, the Galra Empire—but we’re left with all the pieces. But we can’t step aside and let anyone else take over. There’s no one but us.”

“I wish you’d told me.”

Keith gives him a semblance of a smile, tired. “Yeah? Would you have told me?”

Fair enough. “Still,” Shiro says. “You shouldn’t do what I do.” 

“Finally,” Keith says, “you make sense.” 

“Keith,” Shiro sighs, then takes his hand. “When— _if—_ we don’t have to hide, what would you want to do?”

“Be with you.”

Shiro groans. 

“Well, you asked,” Keith says dryly. “Well, I’m kind of missing the action with the Blades, but it looks like there’s a lull in rebellious activity and warlord sightings.” 

The trial must have cooled everything down—for now. Was it worth it, for a reprieve? Shiro tries not to think about that, though. 

“Besides,” Keith says with a huff. “I’m kind of tired of the endless chases, going back to report to the Coalition, never really seeing anyone for months at a time. It makes me want to do something different.”

“Like what?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Keith says idly. “Helping people. I’d teach, if I thought I’d be good at it. Never setting foot in the Garrison, though.”

“You never know,” Shiro says, though he understands. “You might be good for those kids.” 

“And I’m sure the Garrison would love to add another public figure to their number,” Keith says dryly. 

Shiro remembers the contracts, the PR stipulations, knowing that it would have been another uphill battle if Keith graduated and started going on missions as one of the Garrison’s pilots. “You don’t think you can behave?” he asks, half-teasing. 

“No,” Keith says right away. “Anyway, Hunk and Pidge and Lance, they’re doing something. Diplomacy, building, spreading peace in honor of Allura…” 

“Maybe…you can turn the Blades into something else. Something that’s not just putting out fires,” Shiro says. The idea comes to him, slowly forming: “A humanitarian organization.”

Keith’s eyes light up.

“If another threat arises, we have the Coalition; we know we will fight. This is direct recovery. Putting ourselves in a position to help people.” Shiro pauses, hesitant. “It’s small. But it’ll help.” 

“I like it,” Keith says. “And what we do have is time to plan a better future: together.”

* * *

After that, Shiro can feel himself getting stronger, more emboldened, and it reflects in his sparring, especially today. He and Keith are equally matched, trading and taking an equal amount of blows, both of them gasping for breath. Like an old song, Shiro remembers—remembers how the moves he’d been taught, the ones he’d learned, Keith’s fighting style from all those years ago. Keith’s chest is heaving, braid almost fully untangled. 

There’s more skill in Keith—but Keith’s as fluid as ever, deadly and beautiful, and it’s not easy for Shiro to keep his eye on Keith for purely objective reasons. He doesn’t wear the fingerless gloves anymore, and his knuckles are scarred, some like geode patterns and some like starbursts; stray strands of hair sticking to his forehead, one hovering near the edge of his lip. 

Keith’s hands are strong, too, wrenching Shiro’s left arm backwards and forcing him to kneel, and Shiro’s torn to allow himself to submit, but electricity, _fight,_ crackles in his veins. 

“Yield,” Keith commands.

“Never,” Shiro says, then flips Keith over his shoulder and with his Altean hand, snatches Keith midair by the waist to slam him into the nearest wall, skillfully pinning them to the metal.

Keith’s grinning like a maniac, now; they’re both panting heavily, Shiro’s fingers locked around Keith’s wrists. He knows this is an amateur move, that Keith can easily twist out of this or deliver a kick to his skin or even knee him in the balls, but Keith isn’t moving, aside from the heaving of his chest.

“Do you yield?” Shiro lowly asks. 

“No,” Keith says, and kisses him.

Shiro responds, moving his hands to cup Keith’s face, like a man dying of thirst who’d just stumbled into an oasis. He drinks in Keith—sweat and fire and fierceness—barely aware of their surroundings. Here, on Keith’s private ship, there’s no danger of anyone walking in; It’s just him and Keith, and that’s all that matters. 

“I wish I’d kissed you in the astral plane,” Shiro murmurs between breaths. “I wish I’d kissed you before the battle with Zarkon, after your trial, on that planet, before then—after I came back—before everything.”

Underneath his hands, Keith pulls him closer by his t-shirt, fabric wrapped around his clever, deft fingers. Their hips meet, Keith looking up at him with burning eyes. “Then why,” he asks, “are you still talking?”

Wordlessly, Shiro lifts him from the wall, Keith’s lips coming around his hips, and they move to their room, immediately heading for the shower stall. They don’t stop kissing, and Keith never lets go of him, even when Shiro fumbles clumsily for the faucet handle. 

Water pours down, warm as monsoon rain. 

They slip almost three times on the slick tiles, Shiro scrabbling for balance with the shelves on the wall that held bottles in a language he can’t read. Keith’s hair, undone from his braid, flows wetly over his shoulders and back, Shiro’s hands greedily tugging at it, winding his fingers, with Keith wildly clawing at his back, then sliding tender hands over Shiro’s hips. 

It takes a while for them to realize their clothes are getting soaked, and they untangle long enough to strip before leaping at each other again, as soon as the loud slap of wet clothing falls onto the tile. Shiro moves to cup the back of Keith’s neck, and Keith is close, so close that it almost overwhelms him. 

Keith sighs and rolls up against him impatiently, hips bucking, as Shiro kisses him slowly, fingers trailing along Keith’s scalp. His nails scrape against skin, and each time, Keith sighs louder, arches further, and tells him to hurry up, to keep touching him, and Shiro obeys, pulling them both further underneath the stream. 

He pulls away for air, and Keith’s mouth clamps down on his neck, sucking wet skin, soft and tender, Shiro’s hands winding around Keith’s waist and pulling them closer. They’re desperate to touch each other, desperate to reclaim the time spent apart, and there’s no one here but them, and the thought of it causes Shiro to press Keith up against the wall again. 

They fuck like that, frantic but far from hasty, as Shiro’s hands grip Keith’s ass and hoist him higher and higher, thighs and wrists aching from the effort but keep holding Keith up, wondering how the tile feels against Keith’s back, if his fingers ache from clinging so tightly to Shiro’s shoulders. 

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, “Shiro, please, please, I need you—” 

He reaches down between them, fingers slippery but sure, and water continues pounding down from above, steam curling to the ceiling with their heavy breaths and whispers of each other’s names.

* * *

It’s in the aftermath that Shiro starts thinking. 

Now, they’re tangled, naked, underneath the covers, bodies moderately patted dry. Keith’s hair is still loose and damp, sprawled over the pillows, one of which his face is buried into. Shiro loves him so much. _Being with Keith,_ at last. Planning a better future. Together. 

And that gives Shiro an idea.

* * *

Lance’s face appears on Keith’s datapad screen. “What is it?” 

“Bring everyone,” Shiro says. “Let’s find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art can be seen here!](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1CdfLUhDBYTrXpLBbYq4zajZFAQlluLQU/view?ts=5e1e19c9)


	4. Part Four: Journeys End

It’s familiar and different, being together on the same ship. For one, it’s very crowded for a spacecraft built for two, with too few bathrooms and sleeping arrangements, ending up with everyone sprawled out on the floor like one giant slumber party. 

It’s during these occasions when Shiro explains his dream, stumbling enough that he worries that he sounds crazy, that he’s giving hope where there might be none. But Lance adds his notes, his theories of Keith’s quintessence sensitivity, while Keith peppers in his own findings. Shiro hasn’t realized until now how long they’ve been working on this; they weave deftly in and out of their explanations like twin pilots, in varying levels of confidence in their theories but complete trust in each other. 

“The ship has been going on just enough autopilot to stay away from uninhabited areas,” Keith finally says. “But something is pulling me, or...both of us, even before Allura contacted Shiro.” 

“Why appear to Shiro?” Hunk asks, glancing briefly at Lance, who seems to deflate. 

“Remember when Allura pulled Shiro from the Black Lion?” Pidge asks. “Maybe their minds melded, or part of Shiro’s connected to his lion—and wherever the Black Lion is, the rest are, too. Or,” she says thoughtfully, “her crystal, the one in his arm.” 

Shiro looks down at his Altean hand, making a brief fist. “But why then?” 

“I'm just guessing at this point,” Pidge admits. “But we’re close to Oriande, aren’t we? Maybe the connection needed a stronger link?” 

“Oh, so Shiro’s like a radio antennae?” Hunk speculates. 

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve been used for,” Shiro dryly says, and gets a look from Keith in response. “But, Hunk, I don’t think she was just talking to me. You’ve been dreaming about her throughout the years, haven’t you?” Hunk slowly nods. “So has Keith. And Lance.”

“I have, too,” Pidge adds. “I thought it was just...memories. Or some sort of—”

“We could have gotten to her sooner,” Lance whispers, stricken. 

“Maybe not,” Keith says soothingly. “All that matters is that we’re here together, all of us paladins here in the same place, where Oriande was.” He looks at Shiro, and it’s then Shiro can see determination burning bright, something that might not just have to do with believing in his word. They talked about this, before calling the paladins, of there being power in being in the right place at the right time, of clues and hints in dreams, of Keith’s brief vigil before the trial. 

“Okay, what do we do, then?” Hunk asks. “Only Allura and Lotor got into Oriande.” 

“And Haggar,” Shiro says. He tells them of when he was lingering in the clone’s consciousness, of seeing her stand before a grand palace, of a white beast with sharp fangs lunging at him. 

“But she destroyed it,” Pidge says. “She killed the White Lion.” 

“No,” Lance says, and when they look at him, he’s brushing his fingers against the blue marks on his cheeks. “The lion...Alfor created the lions with Altean alchemy, and if the lion _was_ the source of Altean alchemy, then, they’re connected, aren’t they? Our lions.” He looks at all of them, eyes wide. “Remember what you said, Shiro? About the lions coming to us, no matter how far away, back during the Galra invasion.” 

“So, we call our lions to us,” Shiro says slowly.

Hunk and Pidge exchange glances, tinged with skepticism, but Hunk is the one to say, “Let’s do it.”

* * *

They all sit cross-legged in a circle, like so long ago when Coran pressed the Altean headbands into their foreheads, when Voltron still seemed like a legend that would disappear within a blink, when the war was still new to them. 

For good measure, they hold hands. Keith’s palm is warm in his, and Pidge’s grip is almost painful. But they close their eyes, trying to pull their lions, wherever they are, across the universe to them. 

For Allura.

_There are those with the power to create, and those with the power to destroy._

Voltron. 

“Weapons of war,” Shiro finds himself whispering. The crystal in his arm seems to grow warmer, and when he looks down, sees it glowing bright blue, the same color as Lance’s marks. “For a new era of peace.”

In their minds, they hear a chorus of roars, blending together until it seems like one noise, one voice. The crystal glows brighter and his arm hotter, but he feels no pain. For the first time in a long time, he feels Black, feels the rest of the team, pulling each other closer and closer together. 

And when he opens his eyes, he knows he’s seeing through Black’s. He sees constellations and comets and cosmos, and in the middle, something as brilliant and bright as the center of a star. 

“The White Lion,” Lance says, hushed. 

The mouth opens with a roar, and welcomes them in a burst of white light.

* * *

Shiro opens his eyes. 

Allura’s smiling at him. “Shiro.” 

“Am I dreaming?” he asks, looking around. All around him is an endless stretch of white—no stars, no sky, nothing—but every so often, blinks in flashes: beeping with a red line rising and falling, phlegm-choked coughing, wind and dust hitting his face, a whisper of _Takashi,_ Keith’s hair between his fingers, a blade slicing through his nose and cheekbones.

“It’s an interesting place, this consciousness,” she says. “I got a brief glimpse of it when I put your spirit back, a long time ago, but I never told you, to spare you the embarrassment. I should have.” Slowly, she touches his Altean hand, as if seeing it for the first time. 

It takes a while to comprehend. “You’re...in my mind?” 

“Yes,” Allura admits, “and no. You’ve entered what’s left of Oriande—a remnant, but nothing is truly gone, even with Honerva’s doing. We connected and shared each other’s memories to help us repair all the worlds, including this one. She moved on, but I didn’t.” 

“So, are you…?” He can’t bring himself to say it, even now. 

“Come here,” Allura says, seemingly ignoring his question. She tugs at his hand. 

Without hesitation, Shiro follows.

* * *

The landscape changes. 

This time, it’s the desert: stretching as far as the sunset, and looking down at himself, he’s in an outfit he hasn't worn in years: leather jacket, hoverbike gloves, battered jeans. Underneath his shirt, he can feel two pieces of metal, as well as two cuffs snug against his wrists. 

Something around him shivers. He would say the wind, if there was wind or even air in this place. _Takashi_. The voice is full of not disappointment or skepticism or worship or derision. It’s something familiar but old, a memory that’s been stitched together out of different fragments. 

At first, he thinks it’s Allura, but quickly realizes she’s gone. His throat tightens at the thought of losing her again, and looks around again, but nothing emerges except another utterance of his name.

Shiro knows better, but still, he calls, “Who’s there?” 

_Takashi,_ he hears. 

Before him, a figure flickers in and out, like a candle on the verge of being blown out. Shiro narrows his eyes. _Takashi_. Dark skin against a white flight suit. Perfectly-straight glasses. Neatly-trimmed hair, long fingers. 

“Adam,” Shiro breathes. 

Adam smiles. “Takashi.” 

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” Shiro says, and Adam’s face seems to change for the briefest of seconds: a gray cap and uniform, a solemn look, glossy like a photograph. “I wish I could have said goodbye.” 

“But you didn’t,” Adam says. “And I didn’t. Keith reminded me enough of that.” 

For the first time, Shiro wonders what Adam had been like after the announcement, if he’d been worse off than Keith, who at least got an embrace and a chain of dog tags on the launchpad. He wonders what happened to the dog tags, after all these years, along with the ring he’d stuffed into a random drawer with a receipt wrapped around the black velvet box. 

Shiro drinks Adam in, and Adam seems to do the same, gaze flickering to his arm to his hair to his eyes. “It's been a long time."

“Yes,” Shiro says. Truthfully, he hasn’t thought much of Adam in all these years, not too closely, another memory buried and put away, like a red-hot coal that was too hot to touch. He feels a shiver of guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

“About what?” Adam asks. 

Shiro closes his eyes. “You’re dead.” 

“And that has nothing to do with you,” Adam says, sounding like his old, professor-like self, so familiar that Shiro startles. “I did what we were trained to do, what you would have done. What you did do.” 

“I could have saved you.”

“If you stayed, you would have died,” Adam says. “Would you have stayed, knowing what you know now?” 

Shiro shakes his head. He’s thought about it more than once, drifting through space as a prisoner and as a defender—that things could have been more certain if he had stayed, if dull and painful and predictable, the last a twisted form of comfort. He knows Adam would have been good to him, faithful and patient and loving, even when his disease would take bits and pieces of him until there was nothing left. He knows they might have been happy, in stolen moments of forgetfulness. 

But it’s a decision he made a long time ago. “No,” he says. 

“I thought so,” Adam replies, and reaching out, squeezes Shiro’s hand. “I understand.” 

The touch feels so real, like Adam’s really here, that he could step into the real world and not disappear. 

"How are you here now?” Shiro asks. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“This place?” Adam looks around, as if he’s never seen it before. “This is where everything is. People you loved. Lost. And as for what you’re supposed to do…keep going.” 

“Will you come with me?” Shiro asks, but he knows the answer before Adam shakes his head. 

Shiro has so many words twisting to get out, rising in his throat, but Adam turns away, and in a blink, he’s gone.

* * *

Shiro listens; he walks along an old hiking trail that’s been destroyed by the wave of invasions years ago, where he’d kicked aside pebbles and avoided running into cacti or skittering lizards. Later, he had taken his Garrison-issued hoverbike, equipped with an emergency tracker, then one of his own he’d restored by himself between classes and missions. Matt had given Shiro mechanical advice from his datapad, and took pictures of him in a white tank top made almost indecently transparent from sweat for “that special someone,” and Shiro had threatened to throw his tools at him but privately stored the images in his drive.

Dust coats his boots, red desert sand, and he can hear the soft pads of his footsteps. He keeps thinking of Adam’s words, occasionally calls out for Allura or the paladins or Keith, and trudges ahead with thoughts whirling. 

Soon, he comes to a rock formation, a hoop framing the setting sun, and begins to climb. There’s no one here except him, but as he continues, he begins to hear sounds of combat: thuds against flesh, blades swishing through the air, crunching of cartilage and bone, shouts and screams. The air around him seems to reverberate, vibrations pounding against his skin like rain. Occasionally, he feels the slash of a claw, a touch of a hand. 

Whenever he stops, though, everything around him falls silent, so Shiro keeps going, as the red sand turns liquid, the footsteps becoming splashes. He doesn’t look down, but knows what’s beneath him. He tastes it in his dreams, feels it running down his hands and face like tears. 

Panting, Shiro passes through the arch and steps onto the ledge, where he and Adam used to look at the sunset together. And the platform blurs into a ring, into pillars, voices colliding in his brain, cheering and roaring and screaming, he’s killed them all, they’ve come for him, and warm redness begins to rise over his mouth and nose; he’s kicking and trying to breathe, only to have it stream down his throat—

 _Fight,_ something commands. It sounds like Adam, like Keith, like Allura, and Shiro closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as liquid pours into his lungs. In his mind, he sees a vision of someone pounding against glass, dark hair falling over his face. _Fight. You can’t do this to me again._

He embraces everything—his guilt, his pain, his love—gathering it in his chest, then releases it outward, thinking of Keith’s words from that night. _You’re not a failure. You’re a survivor. I love you._ He holds onto memories: Keith touching his shoulder, Lance firing his gun towards Slav and the prison guard, Sam Holt standing in front of his old elementary school classroom, Pidge hugging him, Allura touching his face, Hunk sliding dishes across the table, Adam putting his arm around him, Ulaz pulling him down the hallway—as the red begins to recede. 

When he looks up, face breaking the surface, Allura is there, hair falling over her shoulders like a veil of starlight over her paladin armor, pink to honor the fallen. 

_Take my hand,_ she says, and he does. And arms are around him, embracing him, and in the middle—

Allura.

* * *

All they can do for the longest time is hold onto her and cry.

Allura finally reaches for Lance, placing hands on the side of his head, with her thumbs against the marks of the chosen. They look at each other, and Shiro can see nothing has changed between them, as Lance’s eyes fill with tears, lips shaping her name.

“What was that?” Pidge demands, her voice faint with shock. Looking around, Shiro wonders what they all went through: Hunk has tears streaming down his face, Keith’s chest is heaving, Lance’s face is buried in Allura’s neck. 

“When I was there, I saw all the realties,” Allura says. “I don’t quite remember all of them, but there were so many.” Her eyes grow heavy. “So many of them were sad. But some were better. Lotor actually…being on our side.” She sighs. “We can’t change the past. But we can make a better future.”

She turns to them. “I never wanted you to give up. None of you.” Her eyes land on Shiro. “I wish I could have helped.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “There’s nothing you could have done,” he says, but there’s a lightness to his words, a lack of heaviness in his chest. “But we’re happy you’re back.” 

“Especially here,” Allura says, then smiles at Lance, “in your arms.”

* * *

“You know,” Allura comments, shifting in her seat, “I really don't like the statue.”

Shiro laughs, putting down his fork. “Is that your first decree as queen? Tear it down?”

“That might be,” she says thoughtfully, absentmindedly touching her crown, silver and rimmed with five crystals. The courtyard’s filled with juniberries in full bloom, lanterns lit around their small table crammed with food and a large jug of nunvil. “But you and Keith are giving us ideas. The whole...democracy thing. I like it.”

“You just want a vacation,” Shiro replies, half-joking. 

“Like you?” Allura retorts, and they both share a look of consternation. 

Shiro’s still active, traveling across the universe and helping transition the Blades into a humanitarian organization. It’s been a while since he’s had to hide his face, but his hair still carries traces of the dye, a permanent reminder of his time on the run. But there’s no calls for his blood now; some even welcome him with open arms when the ships dock.

No one’s really entirely sure how it happened, even with Allura’s constant speculations, but Shiro gets the gist: with Allura back and Voltron sacrificed, the energy had created some sort of psychic supernova, broadcasting the trials back on Earth. He remembers pouring everything out into the universe he had to pass the trials, and with all of the paladins doing the same: their hopes, fears, memories. 

The universe got hit hard, he knows, and part of him hates the fact that some know everything about him. Another part feels guilt, infecting the universe with his crippling pain. Keith hotly tells him it’s well-deserved, considering everything he’s been through, but holds him tenderly at night, doesn't say useless _it'll be okay_ s, because he still has nightmares. Both of them do. But together, with their families and friends and the little bits of happiness that come their way, they keep going. 

Allura turns back to her argument: “Democracy is working out for Daibazaal, and there’s a certain appeal in letting people choose their own destiny.” 

“It doesn’t always work out, though,” Shiro points out. 

“No,” she admits, drawing the word out slowly. She’s still getting used to being back in this universe, among the living, not swimming in a metaphysical soup of multiple realities. Coran offered to take the reins, but Allura, like Shiro, prefers to throw herself into the cause, and has experienced more than her share of backlash and trepidation against Alteans and intergalactical interference, not to mention assassination attempts and attacks in her name. 

Allura plays the game well, though, and with Lance as Earth’s new representative and her as Altea’s, they’re, by all accounts, the perfect power couple: the living symbols of peace in their time. 

For now, Shiro thinks, somewhat pessimistically. The universe is apologetic, now, and it's easier for Shiro to do what he does, with the whole trial, he senses, going to be a moment of shame for the history books. 

“Speaking of which,” Allura says, “what are you going to do after this? Go back to Earth?”

“No,” Shiro says. The Garrison’s rolled out a standard apology, and he knows the others are picking up where they left off: repairing the world one piece at a time, whether by diplomacy or putting out the small fires, and trying to leave behind a legacy of Doing Good. 

But there’s nothing for him on Earth anymore, and he’s come to accept—even appreciate—that. 

And although Shiro doesn’t know what the future holds, even in this temporary detente, as long as he has Keith, he can face anything. He will survive. 


End file.
